


The Northern Prince

by MeliMiyoko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Assassination, Betrayal, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Evil Mary Morstan, Evil Mycroft, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff, Harry Watson - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I WILL ADJUST THE TAGS WHEN THE FIC IS COMPLETE, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Irene Adler - Freeform, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, King John, King Mycroft, M/M, Making Love, Marriage, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Past Child Abuse, Prince Sherlock, Religion, Sexual Content, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Mess, Strong John, True Love, Weddings, anthea - Freeform, beautiful sherlock, just let them be happy!, lake sex, letter writing, references to physical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:36:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 52,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeliMiyoko/pseuds/MeliMiyoko
Summary: “It can’t be!”“It is,” John affirmed, if only to get them to be quiet, “Sherlock Holmes, Prince of the North.”Greg whistled low and ominous, “He’s supposed to be dead.”John is king in what remains of the southern territory. His people are facing greater and greater struggles under the calculating eye of the northern king, Mycroft. While out on a hunt with his men, John stumbles upon the nearly lifeless form of Sherlock, the northern prince. Sherlock, it would seem, is nothing like his brother-- he despises Mycroft for all he's done; using their parents deaths as an excuse wage war in order to exercise his strength.But Sherlock has secrets of his own that he is desperate to out run. John concedes to let him stay in the south for a time, only to soon find himself falling helplessly in love.See "cover" I've drawn here: http://melimiyoko.deviantart.com/art/The-Northern-Prince-Johnlock-664920903?ga_submit_new=10%3A1487697761





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings!  
> I've really only started writing this to help with writers block, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless. I don't know how often i'll be updating this fic, but lets hope I at least make it to the half way mark.  
> I have a thing about royalty AUs, for whatever reason. I don't have a specific point in time i'd like you to imagine for this, just pic one, I'll try to keep it vague.  
> I honestly hope i can get through this because I like where my plans are going and I want a chance to write a couple of truly evil characters.
> 
> WARNING:  
> There is a good chance this story will contain references to not only violence of both physical and sexual natures, but also to some pretty nasty child abuse.
> 
> I'd love to hear from you, comments, kudos, whatever. Spur me on with your awesomeness, dear reader!
> 
> I've edited this but the formatting in the text box was weird so let me know if you spot any formatting mistakes.

It was on mornings like this, when the entire world seemed to thrum with life all around him that John feels most at peace. The singing of the birds in the trees continually draws his eyes upward where he is met with the glittering of sunlight through the leaves, a sky made of diamonds.  
He stands a good way from the rest of his hunting party, putting distance between himself and the noise of the other men. The only other soul present with him is his horse, who stands behind his shoulder, patiently waiting. John lets his head fall back against the animal’s neck, feeling the warmth of it's fur contrasted with the bite of the spring air.

He draws in a long breath, taking in the scent of dewy leaves, the rotting bark of a nearby tree, and the perfume of the water lilies floating near the edge of the lake. He longs to shuck his boots and step into the water, the shock of the cold would send a thrill up his legs and ease the swelling from being on his feet for so many hours. But he could never abide doing such a thing anywhere within sight of his men.  
He stares at the surface of the lake, watching tiny ripples writhe and glimmer in time with the breeze. He heaves a sigh.

“John,” a voice calls to him, clipped and curt.

He doesn’t respond.

“John,” the voice comes again, more companionably, “sir, we’re ready to move when you are.”

John lolls his head against his horse’s neck to see a man, older than he, with deeply tanned skin and silvery hair that John remembers had once been a coppery brown, “Sorry, Greg,” he says, “what?”

“The men are ready to start heading back. We should probably get on our way soon if you’re going to make that cabinet meeting.”

“Cabinet meeting?” John replies innocently. He can’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching up.

Greg gives him a knowing smirk and shoves his hands in his pockets as another biting wind sweeps across the surface of the lake. “It’s too damn late in the day and the season for it to be this cold,” he grumbles.

John just smiles.

They’d filed out of the stables before the sun had even risen with the intention of bagging at least one stag, for god’s sake. It’s been nearly a month since they’ve caught anything at all, the herd’s numbers had diminished significantly over the winter. Not because the winter season had been particularly brutal, but those damn poachers just cannot seem to keep to their own woods of late.

John can’t blame them. He’d stumbled upon one just before the winter solstice. A young man of no more than twenty years, most likely. The south has long since done away with the practice of execution, so the boy would only have faced a hefty fine— unlike in the days of King David when being caught hunting on the manor grounds would have meant the noose. But John had let the boy go without ever acknowledging he’d been there at all. How could he punish a person for doing what was necessary to survive in a realm it was his duty to provide for? If the southern population must resort to poaching, that blame rests squarely with him, to hell with whatever Greg had to say about it.

“Alright!” John calls to the party gathering further down the bank, “Let’s get home.”

There was a round of affirmative muttering and John hoists himself up into his saddle. Tied over the back of a spare horse are two does’, staring unseeingly as their heads swing on limp necks. Well, thinks John, at least there will be meat at dinner for a short while.

John’s mind is awash with seemingly endless worries to worry about and considerations to consider. As the party begins its slow plod back to the manor he is soon completely lost in his thoughts. That is why he does not hear Greg at first, though he rides beside John.

“One of them has just spotted something up on the ridge,” he whispers.

The little procession comes to a halt. 

“Deer?” John whispered back.

“Let’s hope so,” Greg gives him a cheeky smile, “you want to get this one?”

“Absolutely,” John has dropped off of his horse and swung his rifle over his arm before the word has fully left his mouth.

John gets low as he ascends the ridge, tucking himself beneath the foliage. Then he hears it, a quiet rustling followed by a thud. Deer or not, John is interested. He crawls like a spider over the crest of the rise and finds himself at a thick line of shrubs that completely obstructs his view of the path beyond. He carefully pulls the rifle over his head and lays it down before doing the same with his body, flattening himself on the damp earth to peer under the growth.

John’s heart leaps into his throat. Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been to see the face of a man looking back at him.

“Oh, god!” John breaths and scrambles out of the dirt, gun forgotten. He crashes clumsily through the leaves, carelessly neglecting to check his surroundings before throwing himself onto the open path.

John kneels beside the still form and places his fingers against the stranger’s neck. His pulse is barely perceptible, only the suggestion of a beat beneath his snowy skin. John slips his hand under the man’s cheek and lifts his face to the light, sweeping the dark, matted fringe out of the way. John’s jaw falls open.

“Fuck,” he gasps in utter disbelief. He blinks hard and even shakes his head, but the sight remains. There was no mistaking those features. The thick, inky curls, the blade-sharp features, those eyes…

“Fuck,” he swears again and then calls out, “Greg, come up here!”

Greg, and at least two other men by the sound of it, clumsily haul themselves up the rise calling, “Majesty, what’s happened?”

John ignores them and turns his attention back to the man before him, crawling to fit his folded knees under his head. As John does this, his fingers brush against the stranger’s forehead; he is burning with fever.

“What?” Greg pants as he crashed through the already partially flattened shrubbery, tripping spectacularly over John’s forgotten rifle. When he catches sight of the man in his king’s lap, Greg Lestrade unleashes such a string of profanities as would have made even John blush had he not been so thoroughly distracted.

One of the men that has accompanied the former general gasps, “Un-fucking-believable! Is that—?” he cuts himself off, pointing dumbly at the still figure as if he can’t be certain of what he is seeing.

“It can’t be!” exclaims the third man.

“It is,” John affirms, if only to get them to be quiet, “Sherlock Holmes, prince of the north.”

Greg whistles low and ominous, “He’s supposed to be dead.”

“He will be soon if we don’t get him back to the manor,” says John, deftly running his hands over what little of Sherlock he can reach, checking for any obvious injuries. The prince’s eyes are half open but unfocused, John is sure he doesn’t have any idea where he is or what is happening to him.

“Good,” roars one of the men, “let him die. It’s the least he deserves.”

John directs a debilitating glare him and the man blanches, “He has done us no wrong.”

“His brother sure fucking has,” mutters Greg.

“But he has not!” John barks. Sherlock’s body jerks at the shout and he gives a pitiful whimper, John’s hands absently find the matted curls and begin to pet them, “It does not matter, if Mycroft were ever to learn that his brother was here, or worse, that we let him die, he’d do away with us all for good.”

“That he would,” Greg sighs, “right, let’s get him back.”

The other men, one soldier and one surgeon, open their mouths to protest. Their objections never make it past their lips, however. No objections are ever spoken in the face of Greg Lestrade’s glower.

“We’ll bring the horses up this way, and send the rest of that lot on ahead,” Greg explains, and disappears back into the under growth.

When they are gone John breaths a great sigh of relief. He dips his head to speak closer to Sherlock’s ear, “You’re going to be alright,” he murmurs, “Hold on for me, can you do that?”

Sherlock, for the first time, seems to become aware of John’s presence with him. He makes a valiant effort lift his head and focus his icy eyes, but the exertion proves too much, and he drops into unconsciousness.


	2. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dying Sherlock encounters a lovely voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greeting, dear reader!
> 
> Firstly, I've read your comments on the first chapter and I am out-of-this-world grateful for your kind words and support. It means a lot, so thank you!
> 
> Bit of a short one, but i wanted to get something up on Valentines Day... because lurv and schtuff...
> 
> I'm off classes today so I may have another chapter up tonight if I can be bothered to edit it.
> 
> Also, i feel i should mention that I'm imagining the Sherlock of series one (slightly younger) and the John of series four (the hair!), just so you understand where I'm coming from.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> ~Meli

Water…

He can hear water…

Lapping…

Lapping…

God, he needs water…

If he could only get to his feet he is sure he could reach it. He braces his palms flat on the dirt and attempts to force himself upright. At the slightest pressure, pain shoots up his arm; he can’t remember a moment later if he’d cried out as his face hit the earth again. _Right,_ his brain supplies, _no weight_ _on my left arm_. With this in mind, he resolves to give it another go.

Every last inch of his battered body protests with what little strength it has left, screaming at him to lie down and give in. How long has it been? He can no longer remember. He pushes himself onto his right forearm and slides a knee up to brace the lower half of his body. His chest is burning with the effort to keep breathing; his entire body is burning. The more he moves, the faster the world spins around him. He has to stand up, he needs to get to the water, he needs…

Thoughts leave him, his body straining against the exhaustion trickling through him thick as tree sap. He feels heavy and sick. With one last push he is up on his knees and working against his rebelling limbs to get his feet under him. There, that was it, like that.

He staggers to his feet, breath coming in shallow gasps. At last, he is upright. Tentatively, he tries to take a step.

 _Get to the water_.

As his foot shifts, his vision begins to blur and a wave of nausea hits him with such force that he stumbles backward. And then he is falling. He hits the earth with enough force to knock what little breath he has left from his lungs. Is this how it would end?

_Likely._

His body aches and it seems the last of his will has gone with his breath. The greenery around him blurs and begins to fade; and so does he.

Something moves across is field of vision, blocking out the diamonds twinkling above him. He thinks he can hear a voice, but he is unable to make out any words.

“ _Who are you?_ " he wants to ask, “ _What’s happening? It hurts...”_

There is movement beside him and a gentle pressure against his forehead. Touch, someone is touching him. Then there are other sounds, other voices, filtering through the roar of his blood in his ears. He tries to focus his mind through the haze, he wants to know if this is real or a dream as he dies. He feels a flare of irritation when nothing comes to him, then a flare of heat through his whole body; its excruciating.

Finally, he is able to distinguish a word, _Sherlock._

_Sherlock…_

Oh, right, that's his name. The voices know him. A spark of panic lights in him. He’d been found, he’d be taken back. He wills death to come, it would be preferable. The voice near his head, the first that he’d heard, suddenly grows louder. The bark startles him. _Please, don’t shout,_ he implores, _please, it hurts._

Another gentle touch, careful fingers in his hair. So, indeed, he has died after all. For no one in life had ever laid such kind hands on him. The other voices, the ones further away, continued to speak; their mumbling becoming fainter. In the silent moment that followed the unknown voice’s departure a weight settles deep in his bones, dragging him under. The presence above him draws in close, bring with it the scent of tea and amber,

“You’re going to be alright,” it whispers in his ear, “Hold on…”

The words drop off.

_Who are you?_

Who was this person who seemed to know him and yet still spoke so sweetly to him? _Yes,_ he yearns to say, _yes, I’ll stay with you_.

He forces his eyes to focus and, with what little strength he can muster, he turns his face up. His weary gaze is met by a pair of deep blue eyes that could very well have been staring straight into his soul. Light golden skin and sandy hair… beautiful. He wants to speak, wants to hear the voice again. But he can no longer fight the weight and, in an instant, he is slammed into darkness.


	3. The Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is rescued by the man the lovely voice belongs to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> I had a bit of drama uploading this chapter, but its all sorted now. I ran back from class to get this up before i tuck in for the night to do some homework.
> 
> I've really been amazed and touched by your responses to this work, it means so much, truly. I'd like to keep the chapters about this length on average, but my chapter lengths tend to be pretty inconsistent as a rule. I hope you enjoy!

The dreams that swirl before him as he dies become strange then. He is very faintly aware of arms wrapping around him, being lifted off the cold ground, and settled against something warm. He is higher up now, and the movement beneath him is familiar. He is sitting astride a horse, leant forward against the rider, his cheek pressed into sun-heated skin...

Tea, amber, and wool…

_Where are you taking me?_

He doesn’t know if he is still alive, but though the pain in his body persists, a peace has settled in his mind; light and calming. Perhaps dying would not be so terrible an ordeal, after all.

“Sherlock?” the voice calls to him. It’s no longer hovering above him, but sounds to be coming from directly in front of him. It then becomes apparent that the voice is the warm thing he is pressed against— the body the voice inhabits, the man with the deep, blue eyes.

Sherlock tries to speak, tries to tell the blue-eyed man that he’s still here— for now— but he is much too tired. Instead, he rubs his cheek against the stranger’s soft collar, the effort of even that slight movement straining his shoulders.

A soft chuckle, “Right, still with me, then.”

A small, indignant noise squeaks out of Sherlock’s throat. _Of course I’m with you._

Another laugh that emerges on a breath. What a wonderful sound, Sherlock thinks. The rocking of the horse’s slow strides sends waves of discomfort through him. Sleep creeps up on him again, licking at the edges of his consciousness. Sherlock finds he’s afraid to fall asleep, what if he cannot open his eyes again? The voice would be disappointed, he thinks.

His eye lids are growing heavier with every endless moment. Each time they slip closed Sherlock forces them open again. The afternoon sun makes his head throb and he wraps his arms tighter around the unknown man’s shoulders for fear that he will pitch right off the horse.

A firm hand finds his wrist and gives a light squeeze, “I’ve got you,” the man murmurs, “we’re nearly there.”

_Where?_

Sherlock isn’t aware of how much time passes, he focusses solely on maintaining consciousness. All he knows is that, in what feels like only seconds that somehow seemed to have stretched themselves over many hours, the rocking of the horse beneath him has stopped and there is a general commotion from every direction. He hates the noise.

The next instant there are hands on him, pulling him off the horse and away from the warmth of the man. Pains of every kind pulse through him at the abrupt movement and less-then-gentle handling. A groan escapes him.

“Easy,” the stranger commands, “take him to the east wing, and fetch a doctor, quickly.”

 _No,_ he wants to scream to the man, _I want to stay with you!_

That voice, that presence, is the only thing he knows now, the only thing tethering him to the Earth. What would happen if he were to be parted from it, would he drift away? He is then swept up onto the back of a new person, a bulky man who reeks of ash and sweat. The odor and sudden motion constrict his throat with another wave of sickness.

When there are finally walls around him the ambient noise is dampened considerably, its disorienting. Sherlock fights the urge to be sick by attempting to take in his new surroundings. It’s dark at first, the air is thick and musty, they must be underground. Perhaps a cellar or servant’s entrance?

The air lightens as they ascend a narrow flight of wooden stairs that creak under their feet. That is when Sherlock becomes aware of the other sets of footfalls that accompany those of the man carrying him. As they emerge from the cellar into the light of the main floor, relief floods his chest at the sight of the blue-eyed man. He hadn’t left at all; he’d been walking a little way ahead.

The world warps around him as if he were under water. In his blurred vision, light from the high windows dances around the man’s frame, shining off of his flaxen hair like a halo. As they walk, the stranger— who seems much smaller from up here— casts his eyes back every few seconds to glance up at Sherlock. Each time he does, Sherlock feels his heart kick; reassuring evidence that he still lives.

What feels like only seconds later, he is being lowered into something cool and soft that gives beneath his weight; a bed, he realizes as a thick blanket is pulled up to his chin. The sudden warmth of the nearby hearth makes the chills rippling through his muscles all the more unbearable, and he shivers violently.

Exhaustion is pulling him under again, and Sherlock longs to let it take him. The man sits beside him, causing the mattress to sink, and Sherlock feels the edges of his fear soften. He carefully begins to move his hands over Sherlock, the flat of a palm against his forehead, tips of fingers prodding his neck, cupping over Sherlock's skin as they run down the length of his arm to his wrists—

A squeal of pain wrenches itself from him and he tries to pull away from the touch; only to feel another horrible pang. He’d forgotten about the damage to his arm in the storm of other discomforts.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger breathes, “try to lie still for me.”

Sherlock wants to obey, but the bone-deep cold he feels and the shock of the pain in his arm have him twisting in the sheet.

“ _Sshh, shh, sssshh_ …” the man soothes, “easy, you’re alright.”

Sherlock feels fingers in his hair and a thumb running over his cheek. The touch gives him something to focus on, something that doesn’t hurt, and centers his hazy awareness to focus entirely on the man beside him. He notices that they are alone now, and the room is quiet.

“My name is John. I’m not going to hurt you, I only want to have a look at your injuries.”

_John…_

_That’s a nice name._

Sherlock forces his body to be still.

“There now,” John coos, “that’s it.”

John continues to talk to Sherlock as he examines him, not saying anything in particular. Sherlock is content to listen to the sound of his voice and doze lightly until the door opens and a man with greying hair steps through.

“Greg,” John acknowledges.

“The doctor will be here within the hour,” Greg informs him.

John’s lips purse as he seems to consider something, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

Sherlock doesn’t look back over to the other man, but he knows there’s a look of incredulity on his lined face.

“It will only serve to agitate him further. He’s exhausted, and that wrist will have to be set, but I doubt there’s anything that a week of rest and few good meals won’t be able fix. I’ll set his wrist myself.”

Greg—it was Greg, wasn’t it?— cleared his throat and said, “Suppose it’s best if as few folks as possible know he’s here.”

“Which reminds me,” John sighs, “we’ll need to contact his brother as soon as possible.”

Fear flares in Sherlock like fire and he clutches at John with his damaged wrist, completely unaware of the pain now as he cries, “No!”

“Be careful,” John says reproachfully, gently prying Sherlock’s fingers from his shirt, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

“No,” Sherlock whimpers, swallowing hard past the constricting of his throat, “please…”

John and Greg share a look that speaks up confusion and indecision.

“Well,” John concedes after a long pause, during which Sherlock’s heart bangs painfully against his ribs, “we can at least wait until he’s back on his feet.”

Relief carries the tension from Sherlock’s frame and he feels himself sink deeper into the mattress. He stares up into John’s gentle eyes.

“You’re alright, Sherlock,” John whispers as Greg takes his leave, “sleep now.”

And Sherlock does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up, we'll see Sherlock's recovery and John debating how best to proceed now that the prince of the north is under his roof.


	4. The Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock fights his snappish ways in order to be nice to John's staff, probably in hopes it will convince the king to let him stay in the south. And John makes a decision that could put his entire kingdom at risk. Is Sherlock Holmes worth it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> Thank you again for your lovely comments, they're truly inspiring.
> 
> I spent my night writing this instead of my essay because that's what responsible adults do, right? But despite the fresh tattoo on my wrist, I managed to get through this in a couple of hours thanks to my outline. I also have a clearer understanding of where I want to go with this work.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~Meli

John sits slumped in his arm chair, staring absently into the fire, his tea gone cold. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands twisting absently. Midday has not yet arrived, yet he can already feel weariness creeping up on him.

“John,” a voice snaps at him.

He looks up to see Greg sitting across from him, a mixture of concern and annoyance on his face. John had forgotten he was there, “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, have you spoken to him?”

Something distinctly unpleasant settles in John’s stomach, “Oh, yes,” he stammers, “yes, I spoke with him.”

Greg doesn’t respond, just lifts his brows in question.

John exhales deeply and straightens himself to sit back against his plush chair. A chill slithers through his veins as the memory of icy eyes flashes before him.

“Alright,” Greg leads, “then, how do you want to proceed?”

 

It’s been seven days since John stumbled upon the nearly lifeless body of Sherlock Holmes in his forest. He has spent that time not so subtly avoiding the subject of the northern prince each and every time his councilors mention him.

“What will you do, your majesty?”

“We would advise contacting King Mycroft immediately, your majesty.”

“There’s no telling what the northern king might do if he learns we’ve been harboring his brother, your majesty.”

As if john wasn’t already aware.

John had reached for his letter set several times, but each time he scrawled a heading he recalled the fear in Sherlock’s eyes at the mere suggestion of his brother. He couldn’t simply send the prince away having seen what he’d seen in those eyes, nor could he put off making his decision any longer. If something was to be done— and something must be done— it would need to happen soon. Sherlock had to go.

John makes the choice to explain himself to Sherlock in person, give the man a day or so to prepare to leave. It's the least he can do. Though John had not seen or spoken to Sherlock since that first day, his housekeeper had told him that the prince had been nothing but cordial and amenable.

“A far cry from the famed intemperance of his brother,” Mrs. Hudson had said warmly.

Greg had come to him that morning and insisted that John send the foreigner on his way sooner rather than later. That is how John finds himself standing outside the door of the apartment Sherlock now occupies.

He draws in a breath and knocks.

Mrs. Hudson meets him in the entry. “Majesty,” she greets with a smile, and gives as deep a curtsey as her hip would allow.

John returns her smile and asks, “Is he in?”

“Yes, dear,” she chirps, “he’s in the sitting room.”

Mrs. Hudson carries herself with the air of an age passed. She is possessed of all the poise required of a lady in the days of John’s grandfather. Though she herself is not of noble blood, John thinks Martha Hudson holds within her small frame all the grace and wisdom of a queen— or certainly, a queen’s lady.

“The doctor’s already been today,” she tells him as she leads him to an adjoining room, "our visitor is much recovered."

He waits at the threshold as Mrs. Hudson steps in to announce him, “The king is come, your highness,” before curtseying again and sweeping away to tend to the rest of the world.

John nods to her as she leaves.

Sherlock is sat in a high-backed chair by the open window, a book resting in his lap. He folds the volume shut as John steps into the room, his shoulders instantly going stiff as his eyes wander over the king's frame. He gives John a curt nod as he approaches.

“Good morning,” John offers, “I—”

His words leave him as he takes in the stranger for the first time. Dark curls and icy cat’s eyes shining with health in the morning light. Sharp features and a long, elegant body covered in milky skin; he is breathtaking.

John is aware that he is staring and does his utmost to gather himself. He clears his throat, “I, um…”

“Your advisors wish me gone,” Sherlock says, and John is brought up short. Not only by the statement, unnerving though the observation is, but by the voice that delivers it— no longer rasping and broken, but deep and sensual.

John clears his throat again, “Yes,” he says plainly, clasping his hands behind his back, “they feel it would be best if you were to return to your home in the north.”

Despite Sherlock’s obvious beauty, without the immediate threat of death to stave off, John is forcibly reminded that the man sitting before him is a northerner; the _prince_ of the north, no less. He suddenly feels the bite of defensiveness.

“I see,” Sherlock drawls dispassionately, “and are you prepared to act upon their recommendation?”

John is about to spout something scathing in the affirmative, but something in the other man’s face kills the words in his throat. Sherlock is a prince through and through, that much is apparent. John can see that he possesses a strong sense of dignity just by looking at him, but there is nothing in his posture that speaks of arrogance or ill intent. Despite his dignity, however, Sherlock’s face betrayed quite a bit. John had seen the tension in him the moment he’d entered the room. His eyes had gone wide at John’s admission of his council’s advice, and he had set his jaw.

There is something, John can tell. Though just what, he doesn’t know.

Sherlock crosses his knees and glares up at John, his entire demeanor shifting to something icy. He leans back against the chair and brings his steepled fingers to his lips. John suddenly feels exposed.

“Your council has advised— no, begged— you every day since my arrival to evict me from not only this manor but the south, as soon as possible. It’s obvious you agree with them, but why? Though my arrival here was unexpected, I’ve not inconvenienced your household in any way, and I’ve done my very best to be respectful of your staff. Your guest wing is currently empty, so there is little chance of anyone discovering my presence here, and I am certainly not interested in being discovered.”

There it was again, John observes, a flicker of apprehension across his austere face.

“True,” John moves to interject, “you have been kind to my staff, and I thank you for that.”

“Then why—?” Sherlock’s words drop off, and an indefinable pain crosses his features, “Oh, I see…” he mutters.

John waits, hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs, “I see. My brother.” His eyes finally drift from John to fix on a place in the middle distance. 

“Yes,” John affirms, “would you not prefer to be at home with your family, rather than in a strange land?”

“No,” comes the sharp reply, “I would not. And I can assure you that retaliation from my brother upon learning that I am alive and well in your kingdom is incredibly unlikely. You’re a military man, think, my brother may be a terrible king— and I do not mean that in the way he’d like— but even he wouldn’t waste his resources in such a way. I doubt he would even bother sending one of his own men to collect me.”

“Military,” John mumbled, his face paling, “how did you…?

“I can read your military career in your posture as clearly as I can read your concern for your people’s safety in your face.”

John makes and effort not to let on how ruffled he is, though he is sure it is pointless. This is not the first time he’s come face to face with the Holmesian deductive capabilities. But there is something distinctly different about this display. It has been a number of years since John's last one on one encounter with Mycroft Holmes, but he can still recall the arrogance on his foxy features. The way he took people apart was a show of dominance, no question. Coming from Sherlock, however, it feels more defensive than aggressive in this moment; despite his stony demeanor.

Sherlock then does something wholly unexpected.

“I apologize,” he murmurs, “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. It isn’t any business of mine. But please, Majesty, allow me to remain here for a little while longer— only until I can find another place to go.”

John is thoroughly dumbstruck by the prince’s words, even more so by the thinly veiled desperation in his eyes. “You do not want Mycroft to learn that you still live.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, he only sits there in that high-backed chair, staring straight through John.

 

John doesn’t remember leaving the room. He only remembers the resolve that solidifies in him as he made his way back to his own apartment where he establishes himself in front of the fire to ignore his cup of tea.

“Alright,” Greg is saying, “then, how do you want to proceed?”

John lets go of the breath he’d been holding, “Sherlock will remain here for the time being until he is able to find a new arrangement.”

Greg’s face flexes as though he wants to argue.

“That’s my final decision.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up, we'll see our boys getting to know each other a little better.


	5. The Eavesdropper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While roaming the manor, Sherlock listens in on a conversation between John and a Major Sholto. And John catches a glimpse of Sherlock's potential usefulness. Then they share a strange moment together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> Hello, dear readers. I apologize for the delay in this chapter, I had intended to have it up a few days ago but I just couldn't seem to get the words out. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> I'm a big fan of a more 'feminine' Sherlock, as far as I'm inclined to buy into gender norms-- which is not very. Regardless, I can't help but picture him as slight and sort of pretty. A bit like a dancer. Also, the version of him I want to write for this fic is slightly broken, and I'm trying to find a way to balance that with his pre-established bravado and the way he is known canonically to wear his intelligence like armor. Obviously, he and John will be falling for each other in this story, but I don't really have the patience, or desire, to have them dancing around it, you know? As far as I'm concerned, I just want our boys to be as happy as possible together as soon as possible, without rushing things. They both have their obstacles to overcome, but they're smart men, they should be able to see beyond that.
> 
> I'm rambling.
> 
> If you'd like to see the art I've done for this fic, paste this into your search bar: http://melimiyoko.deviantart.com/art/The-Northern-Prince-Johnlock-664920903
> 
> I'm very much looking forward to the next chapter!
> 
> Thanks as always for your continued support.
> 
> ~Meli

Sherlock had been doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way, and be as pleasant as humanly possible. Which proved a feat. Some of the servants he’d encountered had revealed themselves to be among the slowest and most painfully dull people he had ever met. It took a frankly indecent amount of restraint not to snap at them, or even to roll his eyes. He was determined to make himself as amenable as he could.

He could reason to himself that it had taken well over two hours to be brought his breakfast simply because there were not enough staff members to perform tasks with any sort of efficiency— the king kept an embarrassingly modest household. Each time that thought came to Sherlock, it would immediately be smothered by the fact that king John did not need a large staff, as he was the only surviving member of his family; and it didn’t seem that he received many visitors.

It was Sherlock's desire to be unobtrusive that had driven him out of his apartment three nights prior while a mousy girl with long hair— Mary? Millicent? Molly?— tidied his still very orderly rooms. As he’d been reaching for the door, he’d spied what looked to be a dislodged wall panel at the far end of the entry; thus, he’d stumbled upon the old servant’s tunnels. The passages were rarely used, a conclusion supported by the many layers of cob webs draped from the low ceilings and the thick coating of dust on the cracked floors. The tunnels were narrow and dark throughout, but so long as Sherlock remembered to stay low and keep a hand on the wall for balance, they proved to be very useful for roaming the manor after dark.

This night, as on so many nights, Sherlock has been unable to sleep and so, in place of pacing a rut into the floor, he’d has slipped into the tunnels and gone in search of something more interesting. There are doors along the passages, each with a small, barred window looking into both private apartments and common areas. It was peering through these windows Sherlock learned that more than half of the manor was no longer in use. The windows covered by boards and any fine furnishings too heavy to move are swathed in white linen. Obviously, no one was bothering to look after these rooms anymore, a thought that makes Sherlock’s heart sink.

 _This place should be filled with people and life,_ he thinks.

Sherlock spends the better part of the dark hours shuffling aimlessly through the tunnels. Sometime around dawn he feels his eyelids growing heavy and ducks into an empty room to rest on a velvet lounge.

The memory of pain is always sharper in sleep. Terror clings to him like vines, dragging him deeper. Dark eyes gleam with malicious intent as they flash across his mind’s eye— and then, Sherlock is jolting awake with a start.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but when he opens his eyes it’s to brilliant sunlight streaming in through the uncovered window. An unfamiliar sense of peace sweeps through him like a gentle breeze as he attempts to catch his breath, calming the embers of fear that still flicker in his stomach. Needing to shake off the remnants of sleep, and the dreams that always accompanied it, Sherlock swings his legs over the side of the lounge and pads out of the forgotten room, silk slippers snagging on the warping floor boards.

Sherlock can still feel the residual effects of fever in the weariness of his limbs as he begins to makes his way through the tunnel’s back to his apartment. He’s been at the manor for nearly a fortnight, and though he has largely recovered from his ordeal, there is a persistent weakness in his body and his wrist still aches. _Hateful…_

A stray sound catches his ear, a voice— multiple voices. Each only barely distinguishable from the other as they float through the narrow passages. Curious, and eager for any distraction from the buzzing in his brain, he veers of the path back to his rooms in search of the voices.

Sherlock realizes that he’s wandered further away from the guest wing than he initially thought when it takes less than a minute to come upon the origin of the voices, now much clearer with proximity. In another moment, he finds himself standing at one of the doors hidden in the wall panels, peering through the small window into a long, opulently decorated room. This was the grandest room Sherlock has seen in the manor, by far. The silk-covered walls are adorned with velvet hangings and paintings in ornate frames. One of which, a portrait hung beside a painting of a lush pasture, looks unnervingly like John. But the hair is a bit darker and the face bares deeper lines, and Sherlock decides the portrait must be of King David, John’s late father.

It’s then that the voices begin again and Sherlock’s attention is drawn to a intricately carved table in the center of the room, at which three people are seated. John, and two others Sherlock doesn't recognize.

“Very well,” the king says, evidently working to hold onto his thinning patience, “was there anything else?”

A short, wide man with spectacles clears his throat uncomfortably, “Yes, your majesty, there is one other matter.”

He trails off as if he doesn’t want to speak his concerns.

“Uh, well, it’s just that…” he rubs at the back of his neck.

The woman sitting beside him sighs irritably, “What my lord Stamford means to say is that we would like, once again, to express our concerns about your majesty's decision to allow Prince Sherlock to take shelter in the south; in your house, no less.”

Sherlock huffs from his hiding place and hopes no one heard him. Was it common here for advisors to be so blatant— and persistent— in questioning their king’s orders?

“Mike, Sarah,” John begins, his voice level but clearly unhappy, “I have made myself quite clear. I do not want to hear of this again. You are dismissed.”

They lower their heads and swiftly exit the room through a side door, the man nearly knocking his chair over in his haste. John stands from his seat at the head of the table and stretches his back, something around the region of his left shoulder seems to be causing him discomfort. He draws in a fortifying breath. As if on cue, the main doors of the chamber open and a spindly man enters, bows, and announces, “Major James Sholto.”

John gestures that the visitor should be allowed to enter, and Sherlock notices that the king’s frame has stiffened.

Heavy footsteps are heard before a tall man steps over the threshold, and Sherlock’s mind goes immediately to work cataloging everything it can. There’s quite a bit to see, not as much or as interesting as the king, but enough to keep the his interest.

“Your Majesty,” the Major says as he lowers himself into a bow that appears to cause him pain.

“Come, James, there’s no need for that. Not between us,” John’s face is as open and friendly as it can be while playing this part; Sherlock should know.

The Major nods as if conceding and take the seat John offers. He wastes no time, “My lord, I bring unhappy news from the east counties.”

Something in the way he says this has Sherlock narrowing his eyes.

“What news?” the king asks.

“As you know, the northern troops came through last month to collect their _dues,”_ his voice is full of barely suppressed malice. “It would seem they made off with more than their share.”

“Yes, I’d heard there was violence when they came around,” John sounds so dejected, helpless.

“John,” Sholto says in such a way that makes Sherlock’s teeth come together, “there is hardly anything left in the east counties, no food, many herds and flocks were destroyed.”

John stifles a sigh and folds his hands, “You know there isn’t much I can do,” Sherlock hates the way his face falls as he says this.

James remains silent, and Sherlock can feel something uneasy settle in his gut. Its more than the reminder of his brother’s strangle-hold on the south, but something in the Major’s countenance. Something…

“Alright,” John says after a long pause, “see if neighboring counties can contribute anything, I doubt they fared much better, but it’s worth asking. Beyond that, there isn’t anything else I can do for them now.”

Sherlock watches as both men rise and shake hands, something solemn hangs between them.

“It was good to see you again, James,” John says.

“You as well, Majesty.”

With that, James Sholto bows and exits without looking back.

Sherlock watches as John sinks back into his chair with a deep sigh. His expression is drawn and sad as he brushes his knuckles over his thin lips. Something heavy clunks in Sherlock’s chest and drives him through the door behind which he has been hiding.

John’s head snaps up at the sound of the old hinges squeaking, “Sherlock,” he exclaims, springing from his seat, “what the hell?”

“He’s lying,” Sherlock interrupts, not really thinking.

“Who is?”

“That man, James Sholto.”

John huffs a laugh, even as— Sherlock observes— he debates with himself about whether or not to have Sherlock locked up for spying.

“That’s absurd,” John argues, “Sholto would never lie to me.”

“Well,” Sherlock concedes, “perhaps lying is too strong a word. But certainly he was exaggerating the situation.”

John narrows his eyes and fixes Sherlock with a withering glare, “How do you know?”

Now it is Sherlock’s turn to huff, “I can’t explain. No, honestly, it’s just something I do— you know that. There were a dozen small tells, but for what it’s worth, I don’t believe there was ill intent behind it. Am I correct in assuming the Major hails from the east counties?”

“Yes…” the hesitation is clear in the king’s voice.

“That’s it, then. Likely he wanted to draw your attention, encourage you to direct resources in that direction,” Sherlock says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

A silence come over them both as they stare at each other. Sherlock can still feel that heavy thing in his chest.

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock says quietly, “that is, I knew my brother has a tight grip on this place, but I had no idea your people were having difficulty feeding themselves.”

Sherlock would have expected derision or scorn from John, but the smaller man only gives him a weak smile, “Not overly involved in the affairs of your brother’s kingdom, then?”

“No,” Sherlock admits, “I’ve always been more than a bit self-involved, never left much room for anything else.”

“Not even your people?”

“They were never mine— not that people can belong to anyone, king or otherwise,” the prince quickly amends, “But, you see, my brother has always made it very clear that I have no business meddling in the _affairs_ of his kingdom— as you put it.”

“Didn’t want his little brother getting too close to the throne, eh?”

Throughout their exchange, Sherlock had been moving closer to John without realizing, finally coming to lean his hip against the table only inches from the king.

Sherlock gives a sardonic laugh, “There was never any fear of that. As I said, I’ve always been too preoccupied with myself and finding meaningless pleasure wherever I could to care much about affairs of state.”

He hates the melancholy that clenches his insides at the memories that come back to him then.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice breaks through his reverie and Sherlock’s eyes focus to find John standing that much closer than he had done a moment ago. So near were they that Sherlock could see the streaks of brown in the king’s ocean eyes. “Is anything the matter?”

“No,” he says, attempting to school his features into something unreadable, “nothing, I slept poorly.”

Its then that Sherlock realizes he is standing in the middle of John’s audience chamber in his night clothes— an over-large matching silk set currently on loan to him— and his dressing gown. Both of which hung loosely off his boney shoulders, and John has definitely taken notice. Sherlock feels his face grow hot, and the color, he knew, could soon spread from his cheeks to his sternum.

“Well, then,” John breathed, making every hair on Sherlock’s body stand to attention, “you should return to your bed.”

There is only an inch between them now, Sherlock can feel the heat of John’s body and the racing of his own heart in his chest; he wonders for one wild moment if John can feel it, too.

There is a sharp wrapping at the door and Sherlock backs away abruptly, startling them both.

“One moment,” John calls, “Sherlock, I apologize. I did not mean—”

“No, I—” Sherlock stammers, he never stammers, “no, it’s alright.”

He begins to move away only to back into a chair, and he is just barely able to contain the squeak that rises in his throat.

"Sherlock..."

"Good day, Majesty."

Without another word or a glance back at John, Sherlock sweeps out of the room with what little grace he can muster, and disappears back into the safety of the servant’s tunnels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up, John has an enchanting encounter.
> 
> (I'm very much looking forward to this next one, readers.)


	6. The Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an enchanting encounter in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> Its half past six in the morning here in south-east Ohio, and the sun has not yet risen. i started this chapter last night but sleep was calling. So naturally, when I woke up hours before my alarm, I made my coffee and went right to my laptop to finish it. I have an early class anyway :P
> 
> So here it is, the start of whatever these two are going to be. I'm not used to writing these types of scenes so i hope I've done my idea justice-- otherwise I'm afraid you won't buy it. I needed to find ways of hitting all the points in this story so I looked up a list of scene ideas and one of them involved a piano, or something like that, and this instantly came to mind. I really like how sweet John is here, he just seems like a decent guy, you know? Not pushing for more... Oops, maybe I should just let you read it.
> 
> Thank you for your support thus far, I look forward to your insightful feedback, dear readers. 
> 
> Also, points if you spot the Jane Eyre reference!

Ambient light from the lamps in the garden peeks through the curtains and seeps into John’s room. He lies awake in his bed, tossing and fidgeting as he tries in vain to fall asleep. He hates nights like these, when thoughts seem to be leaking out of his head with the sheer volume of them. It makes sleep impossible.

It must be well past midnight by now, though he has stopped counting the chimes of the clock in the adjacent room. With a resigned sigh, he heaves himself up and out of bed. A bed that, on nights like these, feels much too big and empty. John never allows himself to dwell on it for more than the few seconds it takes to push the thoughts away, but he so longs to share his bed with another. It isn’t necessarily the passion he misses— those urges could be dealt with easily enough when they pestered him— it's the simple comfort of being near to someone he trusts; the intimacy of just being together.

Of course John knows that eventually he must marry, or produce an heir at the very least. But on nights like these, when everything feels so hopeless, he wonders if it’s even worth the effort. Why not just surrender the south to that fucker in the north and give in?

_No._

He forces that horrible thought from his mind and strides purposefully out of his apartment, completely ignoring the guard he collides with. Determined to clear his head, John makes for the garden doors, perhaps some fresh air would do him good. He steadies his pace and takes slow, deliberate steps, drawing a calming breath with every stride.

He all but crashes through the glass doors and out into the garden, pulling in the cool night air as though he’d been drowning. The yard is mercifully empty. He knew there would be guardsmen watching from the windows, but for now, John revels in the solitude.

Barely has he reached the lifeless fountain at the center of the hedges and sat heavily down on the edge before a stray note of music reached his ear. His head snaps up from where it hangs in his hands, and he whirls around; searching for the source of the noise. His eyes fall upon an open balcony door at the far end of the yard. He knows that room, though that wing of the manor has been closed off for some years, he knows it well; the conservatory.

John moves closer to the window as the sound of a piano begins to pour forth from it. His heart clenches almost painfully, he would recognize that melody anywhere, and it was being played so beautifully that John’s eyes pricked. He felt a sharp pang of unease as an image of his mother seated behind the grand comes back to him, clear as day. Before he can consider his actions, he is barreling through another pair of glass doors, skidding around corners, and bounding up the west staircase two or three steps at a time.

He comes upon the conservatory door to find it cracked, music flowing into the corridor. Struggling to catch his breath in the musty air, John pushes the doors open with infinite care; fearing that any creek of the hinges may frighten the music away.

Any attempt to breathe evenly is instantly made futile when his eyes fall upon the figure at the grand. Moonlight gleams off of milky skin and wild, ink-dark curls. Long, elegant fingers dance across the keys, bringing forth music with such beauty as could have made John drop to his knees and weep. The figure sways slightly with the piece, and with each graceful movement, John is drawn deeper.

_Enchanting…_

Suddenly, the music stops and the figure’s head jerks up to fix startled, silvery eyes on John, still standing helplessly in the doorway.

“Your Majesty,” Sherlock’s voice reaches him through the haze, nervous and a little unsure, “I apologize for intruding—”

He moves to get off the bench, but John holds out a hand as he steps forward; imploring Sherlock to stay where he is.

“No, no,” he reassures, trying to keep his voice even, as if speaking to a skittish animal, “it’s alright. That was beautiful, truly beautiful.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit from John to the keys and back again, “Thank you.”

John reaches up to run his fingers along the sheets propped in the stand above the keys, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “My mother used to play this.”

“Do you play?”

John gives a laugh that’s more breath than sound, “Not much. My sister did, though. She was brilliant…”

A pained silence falls between them. John can feel Sherlock’s sympathetic gaze boring into him.

“I haven’t come up here since they died. We used to gather around this old thing after dinner and spend the whole evening playing and singing to each other.” John allows himself to feel the sharp edge of nostalgia before he thinks to question why the hell he just said that.

“That sounds wonderful,” Sherlock murmurs, and John is surprised to see his features have settled into something wistful and a little sad. “Our mother insisted Mycroft and I learn to play. I excelled, of course. It was the only occasion she ever seemed to find to praise me. So I dedicated myself to music in hopes of winning her approval.”

John’s heart breaks a little for the man sitting before him, but he dares not interrupt.

“It was a chore for a long time, something to be got through so I could hear a kind word,” Sherlock’s tone lightens a bit, “but I soon found real joy in composing.”

“You compose?”  John asks, intrigued.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his features lifting, “music is one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

 _Then you have known few pleasures,_ John thinks.

“Would you play for me?”

Sherlock considers a moment, “I mostly compose on the violin.”

“There may be one in the cabinet,” John gestures to a large, wooden piece against the far wall. Sherlock stands and goes to the cabinet, struggling with the aged latch before it finally gives way.

“I cannot speak for the rest of this wing,” Sherlock says, “but someone has definitely been tending these instruments, dusting them at least."

This does not surprise John; they were among his mother’s most treasured possessions, after all. He must remember to thank Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock pulls a freshly rosined bow across the strings and chuckles at the screech it elicits, “Horribly out of tune, though.”

For long minutes, Sherlock attends to the instrument in his hands, and John is perfectly content to watch the graceful lines of his body in the moonlight. It’s just as he is beginning to imagine pulling the silk dressing gown from the prince’s lightly muscled shoulders that Sherlock breathes, “Ah, there we are.”

He travels back to where John stands at the piano as he tunes the violin and comes to stand a few feet away from him. In the following hours John will try to reason with himself that he could have prepared himself for what was coming, though will know it in his heart to be false. For when Sherlock pulls the bow over the strings John is instantly and completely entranced.

Sherlock is a thing of beauty, an angel made flesh. John can feel a deep sorrow in the music that pours from the prince’s fingers, but also a secret longing; a tiny flicker of hope behind the misery.

 _Rapture,_ John thinks, _that’s what this could be, right here, in this moment._

Hours could have passed and John would never have noticed, so focused was his attention. Abruptly the music ends with a shriek across the strings and a pained sound curls out of Sherlock’s throat. John is at his side in an instant, taking the violin from his suddenly shaking hands and depositing it on the piano before turning his attention to Sherlock.

Sherlock is holding his recently damaged wrist and biting furiously at his lip.

“Are you alright?” John asks, concern bubbling in his chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock groans, “I’m fine. That last movement strained my hand is all.”

“Here,” John says gently, “may I see it?”

Carefully, Sherlock unwraps the fingers protecting his wounded arm and presents his hand to John. The king takes Sherlock’s long, boney hand in his smaller, callused ones and tenderly runs his fingers over the inflamed joint. He applies the barest pressure to the swelling, and Sherlock stifles a hiss.

“I’m sorry,” John says as he looks up, only to have his voice die in his throat as his eyes meet Sherlock’s. They are within mere inches of each other, so close that John can smell perfumed soap on Sherlock’s skin. The moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains seems to soften the prince’s sharp face, and it makes his cat’s eyes glitter. A thing of beauty.

John finds himself drawn in almost against his will. No, not against his will, he would later decide; but certainly against his better judgement. He is leaning in, utterly transfixed by the vision before him. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed.

“Majesty, I…”

“John, call me John, please.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes against his lips, and John’s knees begin to shake.

There is a heat pooling in him such as he has never felt before, a yearning for this stranger who’s elegant hand he still cradles in his own. John can feel the ghost of Sherlock’s full lips on his, and it takes every last ounce of will he has not to take him then and there. But he fears that any rough handling may break this angel’s delicate frame. God, how he wants.

It's endlessly tender when their lips finally meet. Sherlock is so tentative and unsure that John thinks his heart may well and truly fall to pieces. For a moment, deep tension creeps into Sherlock’s frame before it melts away with a sigh. John’s arms wrap around the other man’s narrow waist and Sherlock’s fingers card through his hair. Sherlock closes the rest of the distance between their bodies by pressing himself to John, who can feel every angle and plain of him like this.

Its chaste, really, as kisses go— but the thrill that moves through John at the tiny sounds escaping Sherlock’s milky throat is unlike anything he has felt before. Their breathing is shallow when they break apart, neither taking their hands from the other. Sherlock’s long lashes flutter against his flushed cheeks as he tries not to meet John’s gaze. He bumps his nose against John’s in what could only be described as a nuzzle— so light and gentle.

Sherlock’s hands slide from John’s hair, down his neck, to his shoulders; and John find himself absently rubbing circles in the small of his back. He takes one of Sherlock’s hand’s to kiss his knuckles.

“I won’t ask anymore of you tonight,” John whispers, breaking the peaceful silence, “not unless you want me to.”

“John,” Sherlock sighs sweetly, he has never loved the sound of his ordinary name more than when it passes those lips. But Sherlock gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, only noticeable with the moonlight shining off of his shifting curls.

“Alright,” John says, he can feel the thrumming of Sherlock’s heart where they are still pressed chest to chest.

“I should return to my apartment,” Sherlock says, clearly reluctant to let go.

“May I walk with you?”

Sherlock gives him a quizzical look and John smiles warmly, “Only so that I may see you returned safely to your room.”

With a nod of assent, Sherlock allows John to take him by the hand and lead him from the conservatory. The manor is utterly silent throughout, allowing the padding of their feet to echo off the walls. John is oddly comforted by the feel of Sherlock’s skin against his own.

Without hesitation, John leads Sherlock past the guard at the entrance to his corridor, never thinking to hide their clasped hands. He reaches out to open the apartment door and Sherlock steps just inside the threshold before turning back and fixing John with tentative eyes. _Amazing,_ John muses, _that there can be_ _such doubt beneath that steely shell._

John takes both the prince’s hands and stands on his toes to press the lightest kiss to his lips, thumbs running over prominent knuckles.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John whispers against his willing mouth, “sleep well.”

The suggestion of a smile pulls at Sherlock’s lips where they press back insistently against John’s, “Goodnight.”

Reluctantly they move apart, Sherlock’s eyes never leaving John’s until the heavy door closes between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sun has at least risen by the time I'm done reading through this.
> 
> I don't know exactly what's coming form here. I have to go back to my outline and flesh out the next few chapters as this is as far as I've gotten so far. But you can expect to see glimpses of Sherlock's past and maybe a little about the war that took John's family from him.


	7. The Beads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on a morning walk, Sherlock stumbles upon the old chapel where he receives an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers,
> 
> So, i sat down with my outline a few days ago and figured out what i want to do with the rest of this story. I already had an idea, but now i actually have a vague outline for the whole thing. We're looking at about 24-25 chapters!  
> However, this month is going to be incredibly busy for me as i have to finish out this term, get all my things packed, and return home all within the next three weeks. So if there aren't many updates in that time, I hope you'll forgive me. The good news is that most of the chapters will probably be up during the late spring and early summer when the story itself takes place, provided you live in the northern hemisphere.  
> Bit of a short one this time, but the next one promises to be a little longer as we we'll be learning about John's past.
> 
> Also, yes, I do know what a "pew" is, but I don't think Sherlock would. I've also been going back through previous chapters and doing a bit of revision. One of these edits was to make the traditions of this world a little less specific.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock finds the stillness of the manor grounds comforting. The grounds of his castle home in the north, as well as his brother’s court, were constantly busy, with residents and staff moving about at all hours. There were few places one could be truly alone. Here, on this comparatively empty property, Sherlock has spent much of the past sixteen days in total isolation— and he has greatly enjoyed it.

He finds he enjoys traversing the grounds before dawn when the world is still and hazy all around him. There is no one to stumble upon him, save the occasional guard; but their rotations were easily memorized to avoid potential encounter. He has found seven paths that branch out from the courtyard garden that he has taken to exploring, familiarizing himself further with this new space as he winds his way to their destinations. By the sixteenth day, he has traveled five of them.

He slips out of the manor on silent, slippered feet just as the sun beyond the trees is turning the night sky silvery with the morning. Gravel crunches under him, he can feel every pebble. His fingers reach out to brush along the foliage that lines the path, the grounds are practically humming with life now that spring has come.

The paths Sherlock has followed have led to the expected places; the stables, the fields, a grove he did not enter, and so on. This new walk seems to take him further than the others, leading well past the stable yard and out into a sprawling pasture.  Nestled just within the far tree line sits a seemingly very old structure with something protruding from steepled roof. As Sherlock draws closer the rounded stones that make up the building’s tilting façade become distinguishable, and he can see the tiny flames of candles flickering in the arching windows. It takes him far longer than he thinks it should have to come to the conclusion that the building he is now stepping into is a religious house of some kind.

The entry is silent and almost completely dark, save for the light coming in through the open front door. Sherlock only narrowly avoids walking straight into the door at the other end of the room as he searches for a way into the larger space beyond. When the fingers of his outstretched hand meet the door, it gives way without much effort; it has been left slightly ajar.

He gingerly nudges the door, allowing it to swing open on its hinges, which are blessedly silent. Sherlock is a bit taken aback by the room on the other side. Pale morning light streams in through long, narrow windows, and the ceiling stretches up and up into shadow through which he cannot see the beams. Before him sit long rows of wooden benches leading to what looks to be some sort of altar space adorned with statues and draped in richly colored fabrics. Figures line the high walls, looming over Sherlock from their pedestals in such a way that makes him feel small.

As his eyes adjust to the low light, Sherlock spies what looks to be a person slumped against one of the front benches, face upturned. He hesitates in the door way, not knowing if he should just barge into the room if someone was already using it.

“You can come in,” the figure invites, and Sherlock’s heart kicks painfully against his ribs, “I know you’re there.”

“I did not mean to disturb you, I wasn’t aware anyone would be in here.”

“That’s quite alright. Good morning, Sherlock.”

“Good morning, John.”

John turns in his seat and tilts his head, an invitation for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock worries his lip between his teeth, hoping the biting pain will dull the memory of this man’s mouth against his. His legs quake slightly as he makes his way up the aisle.

“Do you ever sleep?” John asks with a chuckle as Sherlock takes a seat beside him. Sherlock knows that John is aware of the careful distance he leaves between them.

“Not much, no.”

“Neither do I. I’ve not seen much of you these past few days, have you been avoiding me?” John’s tone is playful, but there is something underneath it that gives Sherlock pause; concern. Sherlock stares fixedly at the back of the bench in front of him, determined not to meet John’s eyes. Because, yes, he has been avoiding him. He bites down harder on his lip.

“No,” Sherlock lies, fingers twisting together, “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy, hmm? So, how do you like the manor grounds?”

Sherlock does look up then, arched brow quirked.

John gives a small laugh, “I can often see you from my window at night as you’re sneaking off.”

Rather than feeling embarrassed at having been caught, a smile tugs at Sherlock’s lips, “This place is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.”

“In the far north, everything remains so grey and lifeless until summer has all but arrived.”

“Is that where you’re from?” John asks, turning to face Sherlock more directly.

“Yes. Our ancestral home is an ancient castle in the mountains. It appears more like a fortress than a castle, really. I’ve spent most of my life there.” Something one of his old tutors once said comes back to him then, that he had grown up to be very like the mountains he lived amongst; cold and jagged. He has always felt that was accurate.

“I’ve heard conditions are brutal out there, why did your family not live at their court in the capital?”

“They did, for most of the year. But I never went with them if I could help it.”

“Why not?” John props his elbow on the back of the bench and rests his chin in his hand.

“Because I was burdensome, and they disliked me,” Sherlock is surprised by the ease in his voice, though he can feel John’s pitying gaze burning a hole in him; it makes his jaw clench.

When John’s voice comes after a silence that seems to go on for hours, it is terrifyingly kind, “I’m sorry.”

A laugh growls out of Sherlock’s throat before he can stop it, and a familiar pain sparks in his chest. You would be the first, he thinks sadly.

John looks as though he’s going to speak, and Sherlock scrambles for something to say, if only so that he doesn’t have to hear his pointless sympathy. He clears his throat as his eyes land on the rope of silver beads wrapped around John’s hand.

“What are those?” he asks hurriedly.

John unfurls the beads, “Have you never seen prayer beads before?”

Sherlock scoffs.

“I see,” John says, “your family is not religious, then.”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock all but snaps.

John just nods and takes Sherlock’s hand, dropping the beads into his palm. The metal holds the warmth of his skin. Sherlock spreads the rope over his fingers and examines the pattern in which the beads are strung.

“How does one use them?”

“There are specific prayers for different beads, but I’ve never believed that was the most important part.”

Sherlock’s head tilts in confusion, “If there is an established practice, how is that not the most important aspect?”

“That isn’t quite what I meant,” John says, shuffling closer, “yes, there is a pattern, but it’s all just empty words unless you pray them honestly.”

“I still do not understand.”

John’s lips purse as he tries to find the right words. “It’s a bit like flattery, I suppose. If you’re only saying the words in hopes of gaining favor. You have to open your heart.”

Sherlock looks up from the beads he’d been twisting around his hands to meet John’s eyes. Heat floods his body and yet his blood runs cold at their proximity. He wonders how this keeps happening without his notice. He wonders if his senses are beginning to fail him, shut up in this sheltered place.

Sherlock quickly draws back and crosses his knees, ignoring the look of confusion that crosses John’s face. “That’s absurd,” he says with a wave of his hand, “if I opened my heart, I would die.”

John laughs, a genuine laugh without scorn or judgment, “I suppose it helps if you believe that someone is listening.”

“I am sure it does,” Sherlock deposits the beads back into John’s waiting palm without turning to look at him, his fingers linger on the skin of John’s wrist.

“Sherlock?” John murmurs, drawing closer, “I would very much like the chance to speak with you.”

“What about?” Sherlock can’t seem to make his voice rise above a hoarse whisper.

“Nothing in particular,” John shrugs, and Sherlock can tell instantly that he is lying— his pulse begins to race. “I’ll be away from the manor for most of the day, but will you meet with me this evening?”

Sherlock finds himself searching John’s face, though for what, he doesn’t know. “I will,” his answer comes out on a breath, “I will.”

John smiles an absolutely beautiful smile, and Sherlock wants so badly to be back in his arms, as on that night in the conservatory.

“Then, I’ll meet you in the library after dinner.”

“Very well.”

John gets to his feet still holding Sherlock’s hand, and places his smiling lips against the prince's knuckles. Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest.

John turns to go, walking out of the other side of the row, Sherlock’s eyes follow him as he makes his way to the tall doors. With one last look back, John takes his leave and Sherlock let’s go of a sharp breath that rings off the high walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, i guess John has some things he really wants to say to Sherlock. Meanwhile, Sherlock has no idea how to process any of this. Poor lamb.


	8. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John carries a sadness, Sherlock can see it as clearly as he feels his own. Sitting in the library, Sherlock wants to comfort John, to make the sadness go away. Then Greg tell us about John's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GREETINGS AT LAST!!
> 
> Firstly, let me apologize for the absurd delay in this chapter. April turned out to be the month from hell and things still haven't quite calmed down. i feel like i've been on my feet constantly since moving back.
> 
> Thank you so much for you patience with me on this work. I can't promise i will go back to uploading three chapters in a week, but I will do my best to get them out to you more than once i month, lol
> 
> I got a little emotional writing this one, poor John.
> 
> WARNING!  
> This chapter contains references suicidal thoughts and actions!

Sherlock tentatively crossed the threshold into the library. The setting sun casts pools of pale light on the plush carpets and climbs in pillars up the shelves of volumes lining the walls. The library is smaller than Sherlock had anticipated. He’d expected to find a space similar to his brother’s library; twisting labyrinths of cases and velvet furnishings. Rather, the room he enters is small by comparison, and the heavy scent of burning oak wafts from the hearth.

John is seated on a settee by the fire, a book cradled in his hands. He isn’t looking at the page, but staring into the flames, apparently mesmerized by their fliting and flickering.

“Good evening,” Sherlock murmurs, careful not to break the stillness in the air.

John looks up, probably just realizing Sherlock is there. “Hello,” he replies with a kind smile that makes Sherlock’s heart skip. He shifts over and pats the place beside himself, “Please, sit.”

Unable to find an excuse, and not having another seating option— as the nearby arm chair was laden with books— Sherlock takes his place beside John, tucking himself into the corner of the little sofa. John can clearly tell what Sherlock is doing, keeping distance between them, and the softness in his expression suggests he finds it charming.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” John says, folding his book shut and placing it on the side table.

Sherlock hates his legs, the absurd length of them makes it impossible for him to angle himself toward John without their knees knocking together. His attempts to arrange himself have him fidgeting in a way that he knows makes him look gangly and awkward.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, “I wanted to speak with you, as well.”

“Oh?” John raises and eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking. “What about?”

Sherlock can’t seem to look at John’s face for more than a moment. “Nothing in particular,” he admits, face suddenly burning, “I simply wanted to talk with you. I enjoy talking with you.”

When he glances up, John has looked away, his eyes trace the patterns on the carpet.

“I enjoy talking with you, too,” John says, his voice low and soft. A sadness comes over John’s features, a look Sherlock has seen before. It was as if something painful had just come back to him in full, vivid detail. Sherlock watches as the fond, little smile that had softened John’s face gives way to hardness and steel as his jaw begins to work.

Sherlock’s stomach sinks, his mind shouting _not good!_ There was just something so inherently wrong about a soul as kind as John’s baring any sort of pain, much less a kind of pain that could twist his features so drastically. Sherlock’s fingers crawl hesitantly across the cushions to where John’s fist is clenched so tightly the skin pulled taught over his knuckles has gone white.

John’s hand twitches as Sherlock wraps his own around it. His callused fist, small in comparison, is concealed completely hidden beneath Sherlock’s palm. After drawing in a few long, even breaths John’s eyes, stormy with a private grief, lift from the floor to find Sherlock’s. Sherlock knows his face is unguarded, abnormally so, he can feel it in the way his brows come together, silently asking the king if he is alright.

When John looks at him, Sherlock is unsurprised and yet floored when he finds no derision in his face. No scornful frown or mocking sneer at Sherlock’s bald display of affection.

Of course not, Sherlock has to remind himself, John would never do that, he wasn’t like Mycroft, or father, or…

“It’s alright,” John’s whispers, turning his hand and interlacing their fingers, “I lost myself in my thoughts for a moment, that’s all.” He tries on a smile, but it sits falsely on his features.

Sherlock’s throat tightens. Even when the weight of sadness has his shoulders curving, John’s fist thought is to reassure someone else. Sherlock hates himself a little for it. This wasn’t about him; why did he always have to take up all the air in the room? Why did he always have to be so selfish?

Sherlock’s shoulders then begin to feel the familiar pressure of his own burden, and the gnawing fear of being a burden himself— especially to someone as kind as John.

“Hey,” John’ gentle whisper comes again, breaking through Sherlock’s rapidly tangling thoughts. “Stay with me.”

 _I am with you._ _What can I do for you?_

If there was anything at all Sherlock could do to lighten John’s heart in this moment--- and for as many moments after as John would allow— he would do it. He would find a way to catch the stars if this wonderful man so desired. Sherlock is certain he could, he feels he could do almost anything when he looks into John’s ocean eyes.

Without another thought, and absolutely no hesitation, Sherlock leans forward on his hands and catches John’s mouth with his own. A little sound of surprise escapes the king and he moves closer, shifting to sit thigh to thigh with Sherlock and wrap his arms around his waist. Sherlock’s hands cup John’s face, his fingers scratching in the short hairs behind his ears.

John’s kisses are gentle, his mouth careful and his hands firm, caressing Sherlock without trapping him. Sherlock, freed from restraint by the security of John’s embrace, pressed in further. The angle of his hand on John’s face makes his wrist throb, so he slides his arm around John’s neck, long fingers splayed across the king’s left shoulder. The skin beneath the fine silk shirt feels wrong somehow, raised lines fan out like rays from a central point which dips beneath Sherlock’s finger tips. A scar?

Sherlock feels John’s weight push against him, and he allows himself to be pressed into the back of the sofa. One strong arm remained around Sherlock’s narrow waist to support him while the other hand ran, open palmed, along his thigh to the place behind his knee— hitching him closer. Sherlock’s mouth opened willingly, eagerly, to John’s questing tongue and he arched, bending his long frame to press himself chest to chest with John. The moan that rumbles deep in the king’s broad chest makes Sherlock grow warm, his entire body feeling as though it had been filled with something hot and thick.

The feeling of another person against him is strange to Sherlock. The sound of the mingled breath, the hand kneading his waist, the heat of John’s body. A kind of abandon Sherlock has never known is driving him to delve deeper into John’s mouth and hold tighter to him with fistfuls of his shirt; wanting more, more, more…

“John,” the word is little more than a croak as it passes Sherlock’s swelling lips. Another bruising press of mouths and John is tearing himself away, just far enough to look into Sherlock’s face. They are flushed and panting, and Sherlock is suddenly, horrifyingly aware of the ache in his groin where he has grown harder than he can remember being for some years. There is a similar hardness pressed into his thigh.

“I think,” John begins through shallow gasps, “perhaps, we should stop this before...” John allows the silence to complete his thought.

Hot embarrassment rises in Sherlock’s stomach and it must show plainly on his face because John give him a tender smile.

“Just for now,” he amends, bringing his hand up to stroke across the sharp plains of Sherlock’s face. “I meant what I said, I don’t want to ask for more than you are willing to give.”

“Did this not feel willing to you?” Sherlock means for the question to sound aloof and confident, but his voice betrays him and his words come out sounding small and ragged with breathlessness. “Or do you simply assume that I do not know my own desires?”

            John breathes a laugh. “People desire all manner of things in the moment. I don’t mean to infantilize you, Sherlock, of course you know what you desire. I only want you think on it a bit longer.”

Sherlock cups his hand under John’s chin and pulls him down for a kiss. “Very well,” he breathes against his lips.

“Sir,” a voice speaks from the door of the chamber, and Sherlock goes cold.

His eyes snap up to see that silver haired man who seems glued to John’s side standing in the doorway, eyes focused but face carefully blank. John then seems to recall their position on the sofa, they are wrapped around each other, John practically on top of Sherlock. They pull apart quickly and Sherlock sits bolt upright, face burning as he tries his best to smooth his rumpled shirt.

“Yes, Greg,” John says, clearing his throat, “what is it?”

“Apologies for the intrusion, but the Earl of the Baskervilles is here requesting an audience.”

“At this hour?” John is already rising off the sofa and headed for the door.

“He’s just returned from the boarder,” Greg explains, his voice grim. “He says he brings urgent news.”

John strides out the room as though he had completely forgotten Sherlock was even there. Sherlock gives a demure sort of cough and crosses his limbs. He knows the posture is fussy and gives off an air of self-defense, but he is feeling exposed and raw in a way that unsettles him and his arms provide a barrier between himself and the world.

“I can see now why he was so eager to keep you around,” Greg says. His voice is still toneless, detached and professional.

“ _Tch,_ ” Sherlock huffs through gritted teeth, indignation flaring in his gut. “I see,” he drawls, “you think I’m the king’s new whore.”

“I think,” Greg says firmly, “that John is a good man who deserves more than a cheap fling with the baby brother of the bastard currently ripping his country apart.”

Sherlock wants to argue, but what could he say?

“He won’t grant you asylum just because you’ve slept with him.”

Ice stills Sherlock’s heart, anger bubbling through him. “How dare—”

“Save your protests, your highness, they’re unnecessary. I don’t care what you do.”

Sherlock settles back against the sofa, self-composure steadily returning to him. “You don’t like me.”

Greg makes an indifferent sort of noise, “I don’t have to like you. If the king wants you here, then stay you shall.” Something almost wistful crosses Greg’s face, “I’ve always wished John could be more like his father, less _feeling_. David was a good man, to be sure, and a great king; but unlike John, he never allowed his heart to rule his head.”

_You don’t know what you’re saying!_

The idea of John’s open, expressive face closed off behind a mask of carefully constructed indifference is utterly heartbreaking, and Sherlock feels a pang of something horrible in his chest.

“It astounds me still that he is the way he is,” Greg didn’t seem to be speaking to Sherlock anymore, it seemed he just needed to speak. “With everything he’s lost, all he’s endured, he ought to be as heartless as your brother.”

An image of John staring down his nose at him the way Mycroft so often did sent a violent tremor through Sherlock before he could force it away.

“You mention _all John has endured,_ to what are you referring?”

“He lost everything in the war.”

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt that made him feel heavy and cold inside. “How did they die,” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper, “John’s family?”

“You honestly don’t know?” Greg asked soundly a little incredulous. “Your brother’s greatest obstacle to claiming the south, and he never once gloated to you about how he did it.”

“I was told this manor was sieged. That my brother’s soldiers…” Sherlock’s throat clenched with nausea as the reality set in. His own brother had ordered the deaths of the family who’s only surviving member had, only a minute since, held Sherlock in his arms. A family that, by John’s own account, had been happy and whole, and good to their own.

“Yes. Your brother, blind as he is, believed the late king David was responsible for the death of your parents.”

Sherlock had to draw in a long, steadying breath which shudders on the way out. “I could never rationalize that, and now I am absolutely certain it’s not true.” John’s open, kind face smiles at Sherlock from behind his eyelids. _He couldn’t— wouldn’t— look at me the way he does it were_. “My parent’s caravan was ambushed by a band of mercenaries who when questioned, apparently confessed to having been contracted by John’s father.”

“Tell me then,” Greg says, hands clasped behind his back, “does that sound right to you? We were trying to avoid war, not start one. I was a goddamn General at the time, David’s right hand, and I can tell you the south would never have done such a thing.”

“You were a General?” Sherlock knew this was beside the point.

A darkness crept into Greg’s lined face and his eyes grew distant. “David and I served together before his own father died. We hatched such schemes together, he and I; said that when David sat on the throne we’d find a way to bring peace to this world. As if two boys could do something like that all on their own.”

“You were here when it happened,” Sherlock observed, and Greg’s posture straightened. He nodded grimly.

“David and Anabelle, his wife, asked me to get John’s sister Harry to safety; as she was to take the throne should anything happen to them. We only made it as far as the back garden before they caught up to us. The girl was torn away from me and run through before I could stop them, and then the men simply ran off. Harry was gone only moments later.” Something seemed to catch in Greg’s throat, “I ran back inside to see if I could be of any help to the king and queen, but they were already dead, shot point blank.”

Sherlock shut his eyes against the burn of tears, “Where was John during all of this.”

“Away. He had enlisted a couple years before, wanted to be just like his father, and his company moved out that very afternoon with no warning.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, something hot and searingly painful settled in his stomach, “He was meant to be _here,_ wasn’t he?”

There was a long silence before Greg spoke again. “We only captured three of the men connected to the assination, all of them confessed that the timing of the attack had been planned around the entire family being present at the manor. Yes, John was meant to be here, he still bares that guilt. I left immediately to find him. He was practically family, I’d known from the day he was born, I thought the news should come from me. When I arrived I was told that the prince— now the king— had been moved to a field hospital; he’d been shot.”

Sherlock could still feel the rays of John’s scarred shoulder beneath his fingertips.

“John was a gifted soldier, dedicated in a way one rarely sees, but he was trained as a medic, and he was only a boy. Our people were dropping like flies and leadership was needed, so he was awarded the rank of captain and charged with leading a small squad on what was meant to be a simple patrol. Northern forces found them and opened fire, John was hit in the shoulder, he nearly bled to death. We brought him back here as soon as we could, so he could be treated in safety and away from prying eyes.

The journey back from the boarder was hell on John, he was in so much pain, we feared we’d lose him before we had even returned home. That night after he had rested for some hours, I finally told him of what had happened.”

Sherlock sat very still, afraid any movement might halt the flow of words.

Greg swallowed hard, “God, how he cried. Screaming with everything he had, as if trying to wake himself from a horrible dream. He trashed so violently he tore his wound open. When he finally calmed, council members came in to announce to him officially that he was now reigning king. I can still here the way they chorused _long live the king_. But I could see it in his face, John did not want to live.”

Tears were falling freely down Sherlock’s face now. What a terrible thing for someone so young to have endured, he thought. Poor John— poor, lovely John. He began twisting his fingers together so tightly he lost feeling in the tips.

“I left my position the next day, felt the least I could do to atone for not saving David would be to be of service to his son in whatever way I could. It was nearly in vein. John’s wound became badly infected and the fever came on so quickly that the physicians told us to prepare for the worst. For weeks he lay in that bed, barely holding on. He had given up. But all storms must pass eventually, and when John was finally well enough to take on his new responsibilities, he threw himself heart and soul into defending his people.”

Sherlock suddenly, and with a vigor that shocks him, despises him name, his title, the very blood in his veins. His skin feels wrong, disgusting, evil somehow. That he is connected in any way to the man who had done these things to John makes Sherlock sick with self-loathing.

“You said the storm passed,” Sherlock said, voice thick, “I’m not sure it has.”

“True, John carries the grief of those days with him still. And these years of keeping your brother at bay have worn him down. I knew there were dark times when he’d thought of ending his life, but I never believed he’d actually go through it.”

“God, no!” the exclamation is out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop it.

“A couple of years after he lost his family I found him with his pistol in his mouth. He insisted he wasn’t planning to pull trigger, that he only wanted to know what it felt like, but I never believed him. I am certain that if I had come through that door a moment later, he wouldn’t be here now.”

Sherlock bites down hard on his lip, digging his nails into his palms, the pressure of the grip making his wrist burn.

But these past weeks I’ve seen a change in him.” Greg gives Sherlock a meaningful look that stops his heart.

“No,” he stammers, “you must be mistaken. I haven’t done anything!”

“I don’t know what it is about you, and I honestly don’t care. Call it what you will, but he has obviously taken an interest in you. You make my king smile, highness. For that, I feel I should thank you. Whatever there is between you, it can’t last forever, surely you know that— just don’t hurt him when it ends.”

Sherlock swallows down the painful lump in his throat. “I won’t,” he croaks.

Greg gives a sheepish sort of half-smile, “I may have said too much. I’d best be getting back.”

With that, the king’s right hand took his leave with a little bow.

As the library door clicked shut, Sherlock’s chest heaved with a deep sob as he fought to regain his composure. The air in the room felt cold and still despite the fire still crackling in the hearth. It felt as though a bottomless pit had opened in his stomach that would swallow him whole. How could John stand to be near him— to touch him— knowing who he is? No one could over look something like that.

He wanted John, he wanted to see him, to know he was alright. It was completely irrational, John had gone to meet an Earl, he was perfectly fine wherever he was. But Sherlock wanted to look into the king’s eyes and see that warmth that made him feel safe.

Sherlock restrained himself for a full five minutes, watching the little clock on the mantel as the endless seconds ticked by. Later he would not remember standing or reaching the door in three strides. He ignored the servant’s tunnels and hurried through the wing in the direction of the audience chamber, the soles of his leather slippers _chep, chep, chepping_ on the marble tile floor.

He had enough forethought to pause outside the large doors of the chamber. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened for any sound beyond. When he heard nothing, Sherlock shouldered his way into the room.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, clearly caught by surprise. He rises from his seat behind the long table and Sherlock crashes into him, all hesitation gone. Any questions about what Sherlock wanted or what he was doing there were swallowed in a bruising kiss. Sherlock clasps John’s collar in a vice-grip, holding him in place, but the king doesn’t seem inclined to go anywhere. He places his hands on Sherlock’s hips and makes little circles with his thumbs, soothing the unidentifiable but alarmingly powerful emotions raging in Sherlock’s brain.

They pull apart with a wet noise and harsh gasps, John nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s neck and kissing the line of his prominent clavicle. There is an intimacy in the gesture that startles Sherlock a little.

“What’s was that?” John whispers.

Sherlock exhales and leans his cheek on John’s sandy hair. “Nothing, everything’s alright.”

And he is unsurprised to find that he believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your continued interest and patience!
> 
> Coming up, John has his suspicions about Sherlock's past when he is witness to an obvious sign of trauma. And both of our boys have to summon their courage, Sherlock to finally talk about his life, and John to tell Sherlock how he feels.


	9. The Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John witnesses in Sherlock an obvious sign of past mistreatment. When he works up the nerve to ask the prince about his life, he is told of a not-so-distant-past much darker than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings my dearest readers,
> 
> Remember last time when I said I wanted to get these chapters out to you more than once i month, well, check the publication dates-- we are just shy of one month. I am so sorry!
> 
> I tried to finish this for you last week, but Word was giving my sass and deleted half my work and, being as busy as i am at the moment, i didn't have time to rewrite until the other day. Thank you for your continued interest nonetheless.
> 
> This kind of reaction is not uncommon in those who have suffered at the hands of others. i feel so bad for our lovely Sherlock!
> 
> I look forward to your comments and feedback!
> 
> WARNING:  
> references to past child abuse and physical violence. i tried to keep it a little more vague this time, because we will get into it a little more in chapter eleven.

After coming to John in the audience chamber, Sherlock had been led by the hand back to the king’s apartment where they had settled into armchairs in the sitting room. They drifted between easy conversations about nothing in particular and comfortable silence for hours, warmed by the little fire in the hearth and simply being near to each other. Neither had noticed the dawn approaching until pale light began peeking through the curtains.

                  This became ritual for them, evenings spent in one another’s company. When John retired for the night he would send for Sherlock or come to him in his own apartment, where they would settle in and Sherlock would listen avidly as John recounted the day’s events. There wasn’t much he could say, and what he did tell Sherlock was redacted considerably, as John surely was not able to share matters of state with anyone; much less a northerner.

                  Sherlock tried not to be envious of John. The king’s days were long and tedious, but at least he had some form of engagement. While Sherlock was still confined to his chambers for most of the daylight hours with nothing to do. He had already deduced everything there was to know about the staff who looked after him— dull— and he had been making regular trips to the library with permission to read anything he liked. The pile of finished books on the window seat was evidence of the boredom gnawing at Sherlock’s brain, he rarely had the patience to finish a book in its entirety.

                  So Sherlock waited eagerly for John to come and occupy his nights with anecdotes and closeness. On one particularly memorable night they had taken turns telling tales of their childhood adventures. Sherlock told of learning to climb the jagged cliff walls surrounding his family’s ancestral home and how the vista provided an impressive view of the canyons below. And John relayed tales of tearing through the lush country side on horseback, racing his sister over hills and through the forests, their horse’s hooves pounding as fast and furiously as their hearts. When one found himself drifting away on the sadness of either a childhood lost or a childhood never truly experienced, the other would mouth at their neck and shoulders until they were breathless, flushed, and laughing.

                  On the eighth night of this new ritual, Sherlock lay reclined on the sofa in John’s chambers, eyes tracing the carvings in the marble mantel piece without really seeing them. Either the lack of stimulation had finally softened his mind to the point where boredom no longer bothered him, or he was experiencing something like true contentedness for the first time in his life. That was how he had explained his unexpected peace of mind to John, who was now watching the pale prince from the other end of the sofa.

                  There was something so wonderfully soft about Sherlock, John thought, a kind of innocence he assumed not many people were permitted to see where it was hidden behind his façade of superiority. Which, in itself, must have been a learned behavior, and John wondered what Sherlock would be like if he had not been trained up to lock away everything that made him who he was. Melancholy and a sweet sort of warmth wared in John at the thought of Sherlock’s austere face never having been closed off the way it so often was; even when they were alone. What would he be like if he had always been able to be like who he was?

                  Sherlock’s head lolled and John was caught staring, his brow quirked questioningly.

                  “Sorry,” John said quietly, “was just admiring you.”

                  An adorable blush rises in Sherlock’s sharp cheeks.

                  “I’ve been wondering,” John began. “When you were listening in on my conversation with Major Sholto you brought it to my attention that he was exaggerating his report to encourage me to send more support out his way.”

                  “I also explained that I didn’t believe there was any ill-intent in his doing so,” Sherlock said, voice low and sleepy.

                  “Yes, you did. I’ve always thought myself adept at reading people, I had to learn to be when I took the throne. But I have a meeting with a foreign envoy in a few days, and I was wondering if you would consider eavesdropping.”

                  Sherlock gave John a puzzled look and asked, “You want me to listen in on your talks with foreign diplomats? Me?”

                  “Yes, you,” John replied with a little smile. “I’ve been corresponding with them for some months, and they’ve been reluctant to work with me thus far. They have resources we need now that Mycroft has cut off the last of our trade routes, but I need this to go smoothly. Will you help me?”

                  “You feel you can trust me?” Sherlock asked, sounding awestruck.

                  “I do.”

                  “Then yes, I’ll help you.”

                  John reaches out to take Sherlock’s hand where it lay on the cushions.

                  “Thank you.’

                  Sherlock gives a little smile in return as the door opens and Mrs. Hudson wheels in her little tea cart laden with fragrant tea and fresh pastries.

                  “Good evening, boys,” she chirps, “I’ve brought your tea.”

                  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John says, turning to address her. “We’re glad you’ve finally returned to us, we are utterly lost without you. How is your sister fairing?”

                  “She is quite—” her words cut off when the cart’s age-warped wheel catches on the rolled edge of the rug and pitches forward, clattering to the floor with a jarring crash. “Oh dear…”

                  “Are you alright?” John asks, rising quickly and going to crouch beside her.

                  “My apologies,” Mrs. Hudson begins.

                  “Not at all, we’ve only lost a teacupl,” John says with a smile and reaches to collect the broken pieces.

                  “I’ll have Molly come round to see to the rug,” she says, gesturing to the pool of tea spreading through the fibers.

                  As they are gathering the spilled contents of the cart and replacing them on the trays, John feels Mrs. Hudson’s hand on his arm. When he glances up at her, he sees a sympathetic sort of look in her eyes as she stares at the sofa. When John sets the sugar bowl down and looks over himself he sees— oh, god— Sherlock has sat bold up right, eyes gone wide and panicked, hands twisting in his lap. His chest heaves shallowly.

                  “Leave us, please,” John says quietly to Mrs. Hudson, and the housekeeper exits without a sound, leaving the cart with its newly broken wheel behind.

                  John steps carefully around to the sofa and take a seat an arms-length from Sherlock. John can see he is shaking, his breath coming short, tight gasps.

                  “Sherlock,” he whispers. No response. “You’re alright, breathe. You’re alright.” He keeps his voice soft and slow.

                  Sherlock is staring unblinkingly at the floor, his body jerks as his breath, fighting to free itself from his lungs, stutters in and out before finally breaking into long, pained gasps. John shifts and places his forehead against Sherlock’s temple, taking his hands.

                  “Hush,” he breathes, and nudges gently against Sherlock until they are swaying slightly back and forth. John is relieved that he was not pushed away. Instead, Sherlock’s slender fingers twisted into his own and held on.

                  Minutes pass and Sherlock’s breathing begins to calm, and John can feel both of their heartbeats slowing. He traces circles on the backs of Sherlock’s hands and draws in long breaths for him to match. Sherlock’s frame is still tight with tension, but he has relaxed enough to lean his weight into John, and he allows himself to be soothed.

                  “There now,” John murmurs, tucking the prince’s curly head beneath his chin, “it’s alright, easy.”

                  They stay like that for a long time, not speaking; just breathing together, being together. John’s heart hurts, he knows all too well the fear that grips this dear man. He has seen glimpses of it in him from the day they’d met. The knowledge of it has restrained John, prevented him from pursuing Sherlock the way he so badly wants to— for fear he may cross some line and shatter the fragile trust between them.

                  “Sherlock,” he begins quietly, voice barely a whisper, “can I tell you something?”

                  Sherlock makes a noise of assent.

                  “I was enlisted when the war first began.”

                  “I know,” his voice is tight.

                  “Well, when you’re on the front lines you… see things— terrible things. The sort of things that come back to you in the night to haunt your dreams.”

                  Sherlock sighs, “I was never a soldier.”

                  “That does not mean that you are not also haunted by terrible things.”

                  Sherlock jerks back, moving quickly to stand and flee. John holds tightly to him, careful of his still painful wrist.

                  “Let go of me!” Sherlock snaps. John lightens his grip but does not remove his hands.

                  “Sherlock, please,” John says, trying to catch his eye. “You don’t have to hide it, or feel ashamed in any way. I recognize trauma when I see it, you can talk to me.”

                  “No,” Sherlock says through clenched teeth, “I cannot.”

                  “You can, I’ll understand, whatever it is.”

                  “That isn’t— I don’t—” Sherlock makes a sound of frustration and slumps back down to the sofa, shutting his eyes tight. When he speaks again his voice is withdrawn, “I don’t know if I can, I don’t know how. I’ve never…”

                  A heavy kind of sadness settles in John, “You’ve never spoken of it.”

                  “No.” Again, the response from Sherlock is clipped and detached. “I have found that when other’s… learn of it they regard me differently. They look on me as though I may break with the slightest touch. There are times I feel I will.”

                  John bites down on the anger roiling in his stomach and says as evenly as possible, “I can take guesses if you’d prefer. You could simply answer yes or no.”

                  Sherlock chews his lip as he considers this.

                  “Very well,” he says at last. He is pointedly avoiding John’s eyes.

                  John feels a pang of apprehension, where should he begin? How could he phrase these questions in a way that would not frighten Sherlock away, or dig deeper than he had a right to? And what was he to do if he should stumble upon something truly horrible in the prince’s past, could John promise that he too would not begin to behave differently toward him?

                  John clears his throat. “Right then. I have observed that you are reluctant to be touched by most and, on occasion, you flinch away if someone near you moves without warning or you are come upon too quickly.”

                  “An accurate observation,” Sherlock agrees flatly.

                  “Would it then be fair to assume that you react in this way as a result of mistreatment?”

                  A long, slow inhale. “Yes.”

                  “May I ask what manner of mistreatment?”

                  “Yes, if you must.”

                  John wants to take Sherlock’s hand, to hold him close, but he can see in his ridged posture that it would not be welcome. Sherlock sits with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, body angled away from John, eyes fixed unseeingly on the rug.

                  John takes in a long, quiet breath. “Sherlock, did your parents harm you?”

                  Sherlock scoffs, “Parents may do as they like with their children.”

                  “No, they may not.” John was sure to leave absolutely no room for argument. “How badly?”

                  Sherlock did not answer for a long moment, his jaw working. “It was my father mostly, he was possessed of a rather violent and unpredictable temper. He greatly disliked me, as did most people I knew. Though, if I am honest, I could never understand why.”

                  “What about your mother, did she hit you?

                  “No. Or rather, not very often. She simply ignored me. She went far out of her way to pretend as though I did not exist. Whenever she would avert her eyes from me I longed to be struck. Kicked, shoved, shouted at, anything.”

                  It seemed now that Sherlock had begun to speak, the words were coming more easily. John still wasn’t sure if Sherlock really wanted to be explaining this, but he remained where he was all the same.

                  “What of Mycroft?”

                  Sherlock’s eyes lost focus for a moment, the color draining from his face.

                  “Sherlock?” John asked gently. “Do you want to stop?”

                  Sherlock gives a kind of sardonic laugh, “Why stop now, we’ve finally arrived at what you truly want to know. Just how far into the recent past does this _mistreatment_ , as you call it, extend?”

                  “What has that bastard done to you?” John’s voice is terrifyingly calm, even to his own ears.

                  “My brother made certain to align himself with our father at as early an age as possible. He did everything he could to remain in his good graces, that included thrashing me on his behalf. He must have learned to enjoy it, I think, because soon he would seek me out wherever I was. That’s how I became so adept at scaling the jagged terrain around our ancestral home— running for my life.”

                  “You believe he would have killed you?”

                  “Yes,” Sherlock says, as if it were obvious. His face becomes sad then, “I doubt anyone would even have noticed if I had simply stopped turning up for dinner.”

                  John’s heart aches.

                  “He took to striking me in front of others. At least my father cared enough for appearances to drag me into another room, Mycroft had no such compunctions. He would lash out wherever whenever, and it only got worse after our parents died.”

                  “You were adults by then,” John says, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap.

                  “Exactly, we are adults, and he is reigning king— he may do as he pleased. Whenever I step out of line,” Sherlock swallows hard and lets go of a shaky breath, “he brings me before his privy council and…”

                  John waits quietly, blood gone cold, watching Sherlock’s face intently as a darkness creeps across his ashen features.

                  “He has this horrible cane he insists upon carrying around with him.”

                  John remembers it. It had been in the northern king’s hand when last they’d met several years back. It had made Mycroft appear older then he was.

                  “I’ve heard some compliment him that the walking stick makes him seem… _dignified_ is the word often used. They don’t realize he only totes it around to use like a weapon, striking anyone he sees fit for any stupid reason.”

                  “Including you.”

                  “Yes.” When the word comes its soft and broken, a barely restrained sob. “He brings me before witnesses and hands down punishments at the slightest provocation. I can recall once he struck me so hard I literally could not remember my own name come morning… when I regained consciousness. He frequently locks me in my suite without food for days on end.”

                  “Oh, Sherlock.” John hopes his sympathy is clear in his tone. His already battered heart is breaking for this lovely man.

                  Sherlock clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. “It isn’t as though I’ve never given his cause for the corrections. As I told you before, I have always been horribly self-involved and destructive in my habits.”

                  “And how many of those habits were formed simply to deal with the pain?” John asks bluntly, and Sherlock tenses. “Believe me, I am no stranger to self-destructive coping mechanisms.”

                  John leans forward to gently place his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and look into his eyes. “No one deserves to be treated the way you have been. No one.”

                  Sherlock’s eyes are sad and resigned. “Even if you could make me believe that, what difference would it make?”

                  “It’s the truth.” John says fervently.

                  “There will come a day when I will have to return to the north, and then what? You are a king, John. Surely you must understand that truth is based in perception. And I must one day return to a place where the perception is that I deserve to feel that terrible cane crack against my body. What good will your truth do me then?”

                  Sherlock’s eyes shine with tears, his voice breaking. John can no longer resist, he pulls Sherlock into his arms and presses firm kissed into his hair.

                  “I cannot know what the future holds for us, but I can promise that so long as you remain with me no harm shall come to you, my sweetheart.” The words pour forth from his lips unbidden. “And I promise I will do my best not to treat you with kid-gloves now you’ve trusted me with this.”

                  Sherlock’s bony fingers dig into John’s arm as he holds on to him, the last shreds of his self-possession the only thing keeping the sobs at bay. John fights not to make more promises. He wars with himself not to swear there and then to Sherlock that he would move heaven and earth to keep him always near. Because Sherlock is right, there will come a day when John will have no choice but to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, John and Sherlock's simmering romance reaches its boiling point. After, we'll find out how Sherlock ended up in the South.


	10. The Sweetness (p.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John share a passionate moment where John confesses his desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers,
> 
> I'm bringing you the first part of this chapter early because you've been waiting a while. I hope to have the next part done within the coming week. Thank you again for your patience.
> 
> I want you to know that I am 100% committed to completing this fic, i have a full outline and am working on it whenever I can. I hope that you will stick with it until the end, i promise it'll be worth the wait.

The morning following his confessions to John, Sherlock finds himself roaming the servant’s tunnels berating himself. How could he have been so foolish? Stupid man, he chided, he had let his emotions run away with his sense and had laid himself bare for this man he barely knew— in a way he’d never done before, and never wished to again. He felt exposed and ashamed, it had been years since he had cried in front of another person. The release of it hadn’t left him feeling lighter and more at ease, but rather, he felt raw.

Sherlock’s face burned at the memory of holding onto John the way he had. At the way his carefully modulated voice had cracked and his defenses had crumbled with the slightest touch from John. Sherlock’s instincts screamed at him that anyone who could render him so completely helpless was not to be trusted. Someone like that could— and would— hurt him in the end.

He’d had no particular destination in mind when he’d left his apartment, he only wanted to be moving, and with guests arriving early for the south’s annual summit, the tunnels were his only option during daylight hours. It would not do to be seen by the southern aristocracy, especially not when most of them still celebrated his apparent demise, weeks after his unexplained disappearance. He doesn’t blame them.

In truth, Sherlock felt his _death_ had been the most wonderful thing to happen to him in… as long as he could remember. What few frightening moments he could recall of wandering the southern countryside on his own seemed worth a thousand more just like them to have spent this one happy month here in the manor. He tries not to dwell on it because any thought of how content he felt now was ultimately spoiled by the reality that he would not be able to stay forever. Still, he thinks, a few happy days were better than none at all.

Behind him, one of the many doors that lined the tunnels opens and John’s voice makes him freeze.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock wheels around. “John,” he practically squeaks.

John gives a soft smile that makes warmth bloom in Sherlock’s chest. He crosses the few feet between them and crowds close to Sherlock.

“I hoped I would get to see you today,” the king whispers, placing his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock, as though he had been doing this all his life, lets his long arms drape over John’s shoulders.

“I take it you are not enjoying the banquet preparations.”

John huffs a sad kind of laugh. “Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson has offered to handle most of it, I’ve never been very good at party planning.” A look of apprehension crosses John’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

John sighs and shrugs his sagging shoulders. “Every year the high-born and titled of this territory gather in this ornate tomb I call my home to hear me tell them that everything will be alright, and I feel as though it’s becoming more and more futile. Even the banquet itself will be lacking this year because we are quickly running out of food within these boarders— and I will not take from my people to feed my guests.”

“Surely your high-born must understand the circumstances,” Sherlock provides, wanting to reassure John but not know how.

“Of course they do, that’s the problem. They come here as landlords and masters for me to fortify their hope and conviction so that they may return to their own and pass on the good cheer. But we all know that even though the war is long ended, we are still losing the battle.” He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes. “Hope the only thing my people have left.

Sherlock pulls John to him and leans his cheek on the shorter man’s head. He doesn’t speak. What could he say? He stays there with John, hoping that just his presence there would be enough to comfort him.

Minutes pass in silence, and the tension begins to ease from John’s shoulders. Sherlock breathes him in, the scent of tea and wool fogging— consuming— his senses. He draws in a sharp gasp when he feels soft lips press against his neck.

“John,” Sherlock breathes as he is pressed back against the wall. John laves open mouthed kisses along the column of his throat, firm hands skimming over Sherlock’s body.

Sparks flash along Sherlock’s nerves and he moans wantonly as John’s tongue finds a particularly sensitive place beneath his jaw. Sherlock feels John’s laugh vibrate through his skin. He clutches at him, fingers digging into John’s back. John’s fingers twist into Sherlock’s shirt and begin pulling it free of the waistband of his trousers. Goose flesh breaks out across his skin as the cool air of the tunnel brushes against his middle.

John claims his mouth then, hot and insistent; and Sherlock goes limp, allowing the press of John’s body against his to keep him propped against the wall. Sherlock is overwhelmed by just how much his body of capable of feeling. He hadn’t ever considered that it might be possible to experience another person with the entirety of his being.

The sound of their panting fills the air around them as John begins to release the pearl buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. He sucks kisses along a prominent clavicle before running the flat of his tongue back up Sherlock’s throat to the place behind his ear.

Sherlock’s body rocks, arching instinctively in an effort to get closer. A deep and almost pained sound is pulled from both of them as their bodies align just so, and Sherlock can feel the rather insistent evidence of John’s arousal against his own.

Everything freezes then, the world slowing and shrinking down to that secluded place in the dark of the tunnels where there is nothing but the two of them. John has pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s neck and now they stand pressed together, lips only an inch apart. Sherlock is shaking.

There is a long silence wherein Sherlock relishes the solidity of John’s presence as he attempts to calm his racing heart.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighs, “you must know I desire you with all my heart.”

A rush unlike anything Sherlock has ever known floods through him, filling his trembling frame with warmth and a strange sense of triumph. But in an instant that pleasure turns to panic and Sherlock stops breathing.

No, this didn’t make sense, this couldn’t be right. He could not possibly have just heard those words from that lovely mouth. His passion-pliant body suddenly goes rigid and he straightens himself against the wall, shoving John back.

“Sherlock?” John sounds confused and a little hurt, but Sherlock wills himself not to hear it.

“I’m sorry,” his voice is a cracked whisper. Guilt twists his stomach, “I am so sorry. I can’t.”

“Sherlock,” John tries to speak but Sherlock has already made to leave, pulling his shirt closed around himself. “Wait, please—”

Sherlock doesn’t wait, not another moment. He tears himself away from John’s distressed gaze and disappears down the tunnel.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, John learns what is holding Sherlock back. And then they share in a sweetness Sherlock hadn't known was possible.


	11. The Sweetness (p.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally come to an understanding, and then Sherlock gives us a glimpse of what happened to him before John found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings my darling readers,
> 
> In the last chapter i promised i'd have this one up in a week, obviously that didn't happen. Long story short, after the last part went up someone in the family got very sick and has been since. My part in taking care of them and my other responsibilities have left me extremely busy and fan fiction just couldn't be a priority. Things have calmed down a little now, but i will not make you any more promises about when chapters will go up, its just cruel.
> 
> Like i have said before, i am 100% committed to completing this story, and am excited to do so. Thank you so much for your continuing patience.
> 
> As always, comments are welcome and appreciated!
> 
> xx Meli

John did not see Sherlock again for five days. He had stood in that tunnel utterly dumbstruck, watching him flee. The familiar pain of rejection bit at his lungs, and he’d had to force himself not to chase after the prince. Through the haze of hurt and embarrassment, the sound part of John’s mind explained to him that if Sherlock had retreated after responding the way he had to John’s touch, something must have been wrong— and chasing after him would not be welcome.

John resolved to leave Sherlock be for the rest of the day, to give them both time to calm themselves. But when he knocked on Sherlock’s chamber door the following morning, he’d been met with silence.

He tried not to allow himself to panic. It wasn’t easy.

John could still feel the force of Sherlock’s large hands on his chest shoving him away— rejecting him— as he went about his day. He could feel the softness of Sherlock’s mouth against his own as he sat with is councilors, running his fingers absently over his lips. He didn’t notice the way Greg was staring. What had he done wrong?

On the third day, he spied Sherlock in the courtyard garden after dark. He meandered through the bushes and shrubs grown lush with summer, running his fingers lightly over leaves and flowers. John imagined Sherlock was cataloguing the feel of each plant beneath is touch, the way he catalogued everything. He looked at peace, the lines of his posture relaxed in the light of the high lamps.

And suddenly, John found himself wanting so badly to be beneath those fingers. To be studied and observed, to be devoured by Sherlock’s keen eyes. Without really meaning to, he opened the glass door he hid behind and stepped across its threshold. He must speak to Sherlock— he must set this right. When Sherlock saw him enter the garden he froze. John barely had time to open his mouth before Sherlock turned on his heel and strode from the yard.

Life in the manor became too busy for John to make another attempt to see Sherlock again for the next two days. Now that the guests for the summit had arrived, it was all hands on deck for the final preparations to begin. This meant that as his staff were spending their every waking hour working until they ached, and John spent his forcing a smile while he entertained his nobles and their parties.

Early mornings spent in the boats in search of water fowl, and afternoons spent in the fields watching dogs tears across the grass to flush out their targets. Even with a rifle under his arm and surrounded by laughing men, Sherlock was all John could think of.

The night of the banquet, John could hardly draw breath. He stood before his long mirror and adjusted the collar, the fine silk slipping along the pads of his fingers. They had held their summit that morning. John couldn’t bear to think of all he’d been told. Life in his realm was only growing darker every day, and he no longer had anything to offer those who looked to him. He felt helpless.

Later, John would not remember someone coming to him to say it was time to make his way to the ballroom, nor would he remember fleeing that ballroom an hour later when the walls seemed to be closing in on him.

He flees that room and its inhabitants by slipping into the tunnels through a door behind a tapestry. When the door has closed, and the noise dampened to a dull murmuring, John collapses against the wall. For long minutes he sits there, pressed to the cold stone, struggling to take in enough air.

It was all too much, just too damn much.

Everything was falling apart around him, and the one thing he’d clung to, the only happy thing John had found in a long time could not even bare to look at him. Well fuck that.

There was nothing he could do for his people in this moment, and he could carry on hating himself for it in the morning, but Sherlock was one problem he could solve. John forces himself off the wall and makes for Sherlock’s apartment. If he’d been wrong, if Sherlock did not want him the way he’d thought, then at least he would know one way or the other.

But even if Sherlock did want him, that did not mean he had an desire to act upon his feelings.

John thought that even if Sherlock had decided an affair with him was not what he wanted anymore, John wouldn’t mind. So long he as didn’t lose Sherlock’s company. This prince, who had come to him a total strange, had become John’s closest friend. The idea of losing his easy conversation and companionship made John ache deeper than the thought of never being able to kiss Sherlock again. He did not want to be alone again.

Joh reaches his destination before he realizes. He hesitates before knocking but when he does he makes sure the sound is loud and confident.

Molly opens the door and gives him a kind smile and a curtsy. “Good evening, your majesty.”

“Hello, Molly,” John hopes he sounds pleasant. “Is the prince here?”

“Yes, sir, he’s in the sitting room,” she replies and stands aside for him to enter the small foyer. She takes a step to go announce him, but he lays a hand on her shoulder to stay her.

He spies Mrs. Hudson in the corner with a feather duster in hand. She gives him a knowing smile and bundles Molly away.

John’s heart leapt as he crosses into the adjoining room, hands clasped behind his back. The air in the room is warm and thick, the summer heat having come upon the land at last. Sherlock stands at the open window breathing in the breeze as it moves by, rustling his curls.

Sherlock msut know John is here, but he does not turn around. John’s heart kicks again. Sherlock’s long arms are crossed and his head is bowed as he watches the yard below. John steps forward as quietly as he can so as not to startle the obviously tense man, and places himself just close enough that Sherlock will be able to feel the warmth of his body without needing to touch him.

Quiet music floats up to meet them from the ballrooms garden doors across the way.

“Your guests will be missing you,” Sherlock murmurs.

“They can entertain themselves just fine without me.”

Another silence falls between them. John observes that Sherlock’s tension has eased a little. Down in the courtyard, people have begun filing out of the ballroom in pairs, arm in arm and laughing as though they’ve not a care in the world. A few of the musicians follow and establish themselves on the patio and begin to play.

Sherlock breathes a long, wistful sigh. “Oh, I love this piece.”

Feeling his confidence return by inches, John places a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. He turns a little face John, his eyes clear but apprehensive.

“Dance with me,” John whispers.

Sherlock seems to stop breathing for a moment before he slowly rotates to fit himself against John and lace his long fingers at the back of John’s neck. Its less of a dance, more a careful, synchronized swaying. John rocks and Sherlock moves with him, losing themselves in the music. Sherlock rests his head against John, and the king feels his every worry leave him. He had not been wrong; he had not misunderstood.

But still, something felt off.

“Why did you run away?” he asks.

Sherlock takes in a shallow breath. “I don’t know.”

“Did you simply change your mind, or did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Sherlock says hurriedly, “it wasn’t you. It was… that is, I…”

He couldn’t seem to find the words he wanted and huffed in annoyance. Sherlock pulled back a little and John can see his expression is sad.

“You said you want me.”

John breathes a laugh. “Yes, I did. But you must have known that already.”

“It was different,” Sherlock mutters, “hearing it.”

“Why?” Confidence returning, John’s voice is soft and without tension.

Sherlock strokes tentative fingers across John’s cheek, a deep crease etched between his brows. “I cannot believe that so good a man as you could want me.”

“Sherlock,” John sighs, pain welling in his chest despite the little smile tugging at his lips, “how can you think so?”

Confusion and frustration play across Sherlock’s face and he bites down hard on his lip. John kneads Sherlock’s waist and smiles up at him with as much warmth as his twisting stomach will allow.

“Do you doubt me?”

“Entirely,” Sherlock snaps. He then softens at the look of hurt that John can feel on his features.

He draws in a steadying breath. “No, it is not your word that I doubt, it’s my own ears. For how can I have truly heard you confess to wanting _me?_ I am not what you think me to be.”

“You are,” John begins slowly, making sure Sherlock hears every word, “the greatest happiness I have ever known. Look at me. Yes, I know how that sounds, but I swear it’s the truth.” God, he was shit at this. “You, my sweet Sherlock, came crashing into my life and lit up my world like a thousand stars.”

Sherlock’s has flushed a deep shade of red and he seems to fight with himself in order to keep his eyes on John’s. He tries to speak, but no words come. Sherlock sags, resistance leaves him as he seems to resign himself to an unhappy truth. He shakes his head as he attempts to pull away.

“Look at me,” John orders, firm but patient, “look at me and tell me what you see. You see everything, you observe everything, deduce it for me.”

Sherlock goes very still as his eyes focus intently on John’s face. John nods his consent, and crystalline irises begin rapidly flitting over his body. Seconds pass and whatever Sherlock is seeing is clearly surprising him. His brows flick as if he is having a conversation with himself and he barely draws his breath.

After less than a minute Sherlock’s eyes close and his lips twitch into a tentative smile.

“What do you see?” John asks.

“Lip parted, eyes dilated and slightly unfocused, breath uneven,” Sherlock begins in a rapid whisper. “Factor in…” he gives a little cough, “other physical responses to my proximity. I’ve seen these things before.”

John laughs, “But you did not observe.” He then grows serious, finger tightening on Sherlock’s waist. “If you have changed your mind I will respect that, but I _hmph—_ ”

Sherlock crashes down on John with an intensity that surprises both of them, crushing his mouth to John’s with enough force to cause pain. John pulls him in and long fingers cup his head, holding him fast. Sherlock’s mouth opens for him and John’s grips tightens reflexively.

They break apart, panting.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s alright,” John’s slurred reply comes unbidden, “I don’t mind.”

They remain there by the window pressed together. The light from the garden lamps glowing gold on their skin. Moments pass as they taste each other with little kisses, fingers twined in hair and sleek silk.

“I want you,” Sherlock pants, and John closes his mouth over his throat and sucks hard, drawing from Sherlock the most beautiful sound John has ever heard.

John pulls back to look into Sherlock’s pale eyes, heart leaping. “You’re sure?” he asks quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, expression clear and wanting.

Time slows for just a moment as John processes what he’s just heard. That whispered word sinks into him and settles itself in his chest, warming and fortifying John to reach up and take Sherlock’s mouth again.

The kiss is slow but firm, more confident in the wake of their new understanding. Despite Sherlock’s larger frame the contours of their bodies align as though they had been made to fit together. John takes Sherlock’s hand and guides him wordlessly through the door that connects the sitting room and the bedroom.

He feels Sherlock’s fingers tighten fractionally around his as the bed itself, with its massive carved headboard, comes into view. John stops at the corner of the mattress and pulls Sherlock around to face him. Their lips meet as if drawn together and Sherlock’s free hand, the one that hasn’t grabbed hold of John’s collar, grips the thick wooden bed post.

John's fingers crawl up Sherlock's body to release the pearl button at his throat. Sherlock's eyes bore into him, studying his every move with obvious interest. John crowds close, herding Sherlock until the backs of his knees touch the mattress. Something like uncertainty flashes in the prince’s eyes before he takes in a slow breath and climbs onto the bed.

John watches, transfixed, for just a moment before easing himself onto the mattress to kneel across Sherlock's thighs. John splays his hands across Sherlock's chest and runs them up his long neck to cup his face gently. Sherlock's fingers which had been twitching idly at his sides, find John's hips and dig in.

“Sherlock,” John begins carefully, and clears his throat, “have you ever… That is, do you—”

He feels tremendously awkward, but he wanted to be sure.

Sherlock's expression tightens and color rises in his cheeks. “You’re just thinking to ask this _now?”_ he accuses while attempting to draw away.

John's heart sinks. “It’s alright, honestly, it’s all fine. I just don’t know what you’re comfortable with.”

Sherlock seems to consider this for a moment, his face unreadable and a little withdrawn. John feels his pulse begin to race. It worries him to see Sherlock drawing away after only a few moments in bed together.

God, was he really so out of practice that he’d already managed to ruin this?

Sherlock clears his throat.

“No,” he murmurs, “even in my more reckless stages of life I was kept virgin for…” he trailed off, “political reasons.”

John feels a pang of sympathy. “You were promised to someone.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs, but John can read the underlying discomfort in his face.

“Yes, that’s right,” he says.

John watches, slightly horrified, as Sherlock's eyes glaze over for a moment.

“You don’t have to explain,” John rushes to say.

Sherlock places a wide palm against John's chest. “Yes, I do. It’s true, I was— am— betrothed to the son of an eastern lord, but I never wanted to be.” His fingertips press hard into John's skin.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, “it’s alright, honestly. It doesn’t matter, you’re here now, it’s just the two of us.”

Sherlock's eyes are dark with desire, and John feels himself sinking into their depths.

A loud knock sounds at the door, making them both jump. The door is swinging open before either of them can get a word out.

“Your highness,” Mrs. Hudson coos as she steps into the room, “I had forgotten to ask if you wanted me to—”

She freezes when she catches sight of John and Sherlock. How absurd they must look, John muses, cheeks burning. The two of them in bed, John straddling Sherlock's thighs.

“Oh dear!” she exclaims, making a good show of being shocked to have stumbled in on the scene before her, “I do apologize. Don’t let me interrupt.”

She quickly wheels around and takes her leave with an approving sort of hum. John notices that she can’t quite keep the smile off of her face.

They turn back to face each other. Sherlock has gone ridiculously red, pale skin burning with embarrassment. Their eyes only meet for a moment before they are breaking down into helpless laugher.

When their laugher has faded to giggled, and then to contented chuckles, Sherlock grips John's shirt and pulls him in.

Lips only inches apart Sherlock whispers, “I want you, only you.”

There is such passion and certainty in his voice that John is momentarily taken aback. But then a rush of need floods his body and he feels himself truly come alive for the first time in so long.

They crash together, a blur of questing mouths and fumbling fingers before they fall back together against the mountain of pillows and loose themselves completely.

 

Sometime later, lying entangled in the stillness of the dark room, John listens carefully to Sherlock's breathing. He knows the prince isn’t sleeping, but he doesn’t want to disrupt this moment.

For all his reservations, Sherlock had opened up to John in a way he’d not been expecting. He had reached for John eagerly and without fear. John feels his chest warm at the memory.

“I know you aren’t asleep,” Sherlock's voice rumbles from where his face is pressed to John's chest, “I can hear your mind whirring.”

John breathes out heavily and places a kiss on Sherlock's curls.

“You want to know about my betrothal,” he says simply.

“I’ll admit I’m curious,” John replies, “but you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

Sherlock makes a noise of assent and lapses into silence again.

A full minute passes and John begins to think perhaps that will be the end of the conversation for now, and perhaps they should get a few hours of sleep, before Sherlock speaks again.

“What do you know of James Moriarty?”

John feels his heart skip. “Very little, but far more than I’d like to.”

“You likely only know of him by the reputation he gained during the war. Even though he was still quiet young, he managed to make a rather terrifying name for himself.”

“He worked as an inquirer for your brother, didn’t he?”

“For northern intelligence, yes. He rather enjoyed his work, as I understand it. His father is a powerful lord in east and my father—and Mycroft after him— have lusted after that family’s resources for as long as I can remember. I was promised to Jim by my father when I was little more than a child. He struck the deal just before he died.”

Something in Sherlock's words caught John's attention.

“Why haven’t you married yet?”

“Jim is the youngest of seven siblings, and northern law prohibits a person from marrying before their older siblings have. This, inconveniently, does not apply to Mycroft. Eight months ago, James’ older sister, the last unmarried sibling besides himself, fell suddenly ill and died. I suppose he grew tired of waiting for his title.”

The casual way Sherlock said this unnerved John.

“You believe him capable of murdering his own sister?”

“He made no secret of it, John. He is a monster, and he takes what he wants. Upon her death, arrangements were made for our wedding. At first I was willing to go along with the whole thing. I have no real objections to the institution, and I hadn’t yet found any major fault with my fiancé. Jim is a highly intelligent man, and not altogether unappealing. Despite his brutal reputation, he had never harmed me the few times I’d interacted with him, and I hoped that once we were married I could go to live on his father’s estate, away from Mycroft.

“What changed,” John asked, stroking Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock goes very still, his breathing becoming shallow.

“He did. At first I was quite taken with him, he was charming and thoughtful. But it didn’t last. I pleaded with my brother to call off the marriage, but he refused. He sent me away as punishment for my selfishness, and it was from my exile that I escaped and found my way to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time in "The Escape":  
> We will see snippets of the history between Sherlock and Jim, and finally learn what happened to Sherlock in the days before John found him in the forest.


	12. The Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock met James Moriarty he believed the eastern lord's son would be his salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings readers!
> 
> A small bit of context: Sherlock in this universe is a little younger at age 32, while John is 40. Sherlock got engaged at age 12 just before his parents deaths and the assassination of John's parents. John enlisted at 18, and took the southern throne two years later when the conflict worsened. the war lasted for 15 years.
> 
> I felt a little sorry for Sherlock here.
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated.  
> hope you enjoy
> 
> By the way, we're looking at possibly 25-26 chapters unless i condense/remove things from the outline.

_Northern mountains, Holmes clan ancestral home, 20 years ago_

Sherlock peeks carefully around the door frame, anticipation fluttering in his stomach.

A long suffering sigh precedes the sharp voice of his father. “Well, come in, boy. Don’t lurk in the doorway.”

Sherlock hastily checks that his clothes are smoothed and that his usually unruly curls are at least a little tidy. After all, it would not do to meet ones betrothed looking a mess.

Straightening his shoulders, he steps into the room and three sets of steely eyes clap onto him. He tries not to shrink. His father, the northern king, stands before him; his angular face that is so like Sherlock's own is frowning. He is always frowning. Mycroft hovers behind him, his lips are twisted in a disdainful sneer.

Sherlock lowers himself into a bow.

“Your majesty,” he greets. His voice wavers, he knows his father will have noticed.

“Sherlock,” the king begins, “this man is Gorge Moriarty, a lord in the east, and your future father in law.”

Sherlock's heart skips.

He dips into a bow towards Gorge Moriarty. “My Lord,” he says calmly.

As he rises, Sherlock keeps his eyes firmly on the newly polished floor boards, hands clasped.

Lord Moriarty steps forward with a quick stride, and Sherlock jerks back reflexively. With a derisive sniff, the man grips Sherlock's chin with a callused thumb and forces his face up.

The Lord’s face is not at all like what Sherlock had been expecting. His skin is pale and smooth, with dark eyes set deep in their sockets. His eyes are frightening, cold and menacing. Lord Moriarty rolls his lip out between his teeth and Sherlock feels something icy settle in his gut.

“Yes,” Gorge Moriarty purrs, his eastern brogue is soft but distinct, “you’ll do nicely.”

Sherlock makes to pull away but is held in place by a firm hand that grasps his arm.

“Your Majesty,” he tries to get his father’s attention.

“Hush, boy,” the king orders, not bothering to look at his son.

Just as Sherlock is preparing to flee the parlor, even knowing he’d face his father’s wrath, a voice speaks up from behind Lord Moriarty; high and sweet.

“Father, if I may.”

Lord Moriarty released Sherlock's face, for which the prince was very grateful, to reveal a boy near his own age. The boy came forward and bowed deeply before Sherlock, peering up at him with a playful smirk.

“This is my son,” Lord Moriarty says, “your future husband, James.”

“It’s an honor to be presented to you, your highness.”

Sherlock feels his face grow hot as a lump expands in his chest.

“The honor is mine, James.”

“Jim, please,” James replies.

Jim Moriarty is the spitting image of his father, ghostly pale with sable hair slicked back from his small face. But his eyes are very different. Jim’s eyes are not cold and threatening, but rather they hold a measure of mischief in their depths.

Jim expends a thin hand to Sherlock, who gives a little to cough to cover the squeak that catches in his throat. As Sherlock slides his hand onto Jim’s, his eyes flit over his form. He finds nothing that alarms him at first glance, and he allows himself to relax a bit.

Jim approaches and places a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock no longer recalls what happened next.

 

_Northern mountains, Holmes clan ancestral home, 11 years ago_

Sherlock would not see James Moriarty again for nine years. Discouraged by Mycroft from sending more letters than was considered appropriate, well wishes at holidays and the like, Sherlock waited anxiously for each and every reply.

Jim remained a source of hope for the young prince. Even after his first breakdown and lapse into what his older brother would call _unsavory_ habits. Sherlock would often dream of his fiancé— with whom he grew more enamored each passing day— crashing through the heavy castle doors to rescue him from the hell that was his life.

The frequency and intensity of these dreamings, fueled by any and every substance the isolated prince could procure, often made it difficult to differentiate between sleep and wakefulness.

Perhaps that is why Sherlock does not at first realize that the figure that looms above him where he is sprawled in his bed his real

When at last his bleary eyes focus he is startled to see a face he has had memorized for nine years grown handsome with maturity.

 _Jim,_ he wants to say. _My god, it’s really you._

But no words will come. His limbs feel heavy and he thinks his head may well be filled with cotton.

Some sound must have emanated from him because Jim takes a seat beside him murmuring, “ _Sshh,_ your brother told me I might find you here.”

Sherlock is confused.

 _Why have you come?_ he wants to asks. _Say you’ll take me away from here_.

“He said I wouldn’t like what I found when I arrived— he was wrong.”

Something wasn’t right. This man couldn’t possibly be the sweet boy Sherlock had been presented to in the parlor. That boy’s face was kind and open, his eyes had sparkled. Through the fog that crept across his vision, Sherlock could see that this man’s eyes were empty and dark. This could not be his Jim.

Sherlock feels hands slip under his shirt. The touch is hot against his over-sensitive skin and he feels his body writhe.

“I rather like you like this. Addled, sweet, and pliant. I think I’ll keep you like this always once your mine.”

Sherlock feels the realization hit him with shocking force. This man was indeed his Jim, or the man his Jim had become.

JIm tips Sherlock's head back, and he feels a spot of cool touch his lip before something trickles into his mouth.

“A little gift for you,” Jim coos, leaning over Sherlock and brushing soft fingers over his twitching lips. “Perhaps I’ll bring more when next I visit.”

Darkness closes in around the edges of Sherlock's vision, despair twisting his stomach. When he wakes he deliberately forgets what happened. Even as the effects of whatever James Moriarty had given him sets his already ravaged body on fire, he wills himself to forget. Moriarty is his last hope of escaping this horrible place, and he will hold onto that hope, even if it kills him.

 

_Diogenes Court, state residence of king Mycroft I, 5 years ago_

Six years would pass before Sherlock would see James Moriarty again. The eastern lord’s son would send the occasional letter, but Sherlock never responded. Where there had once been excitement and hope at the idea of his imminent nuptials, there was now only rage.

What more could be taken from him before he finally broke, he wondered.

Sherlock had nearly lost his life in trying to remove the influence of his reckless days form his existence. Not always simply because the withdrawal had torn him to pieces in every way, but because Mycroft had beaten him to within an inch of his sorry life after a particularly trying night.

Sherlock had suffered through every violent shudder and each horrible blow alone, cut off entirely from the world around him. Aching deeply for some kind of human connection. Though he would never admit to it.

So when James Moriarty enters the great hall with his lovely sister Janine on his arm, Sherlock is out of his seat at the head table, making sure that the feet of his chair scrape as loud as possible as he stands, and striding out of the hall before anyone can stop him.

 

_Diogenes Court, state residence of King Mycroft I, 6 months ago_

The funeral had been a tasteful one, the sort of affair fitting of a noble family like the Moriarty’s. Sherlock hadn’t known Janine well, he had only spoken to her a small handful of times, but she was clever and engaging; the highest praise Sherlock could bestow upon another human being.

James accompanied Sherlock back to court, relegated to the carriage behind the prince’s. As the fiancé of the deceased’s brother, it was decided that Sherlock should attend the funeral— if only to show that the Moriarty family had the king’s favor. But Sherlock had blatantly ignored James, though he knew it was a foolish thing to do.

It accomplished nothing, being at odds with the man he was to marry; likely sooner rather than later now that Janine was gone, but Sherlock just couldn’t stand to be near him. He could no longer lament the sweet boy he’d met in childhood, because he now understood it had all been an act. There existed a bone-deep evil within James Moriarty, and it had been there all along.

Upon his return to court, Sherlock is summoned at once to his brother’s audience chamber before he’s even changed out of his traveling clothes.

“You will be married by midsummer,” Mycroft says as Sherlock rises from his bow. “There are a few minor details to be sorted, and then you and your beloved James will meet at the altar.”

Mycroft was not a stupid man by any means. Stubborn and cruel, but not stupid. He could see Sherlock's distaste for his betrothed from the moment it had taken root, and he delighted in it. he had no reason to care what became of his brother, so long as Lord Moriarty came through on his end of the bargain.

Dismissed, Sherlock returns to his chambers to rest.

Sherlock does not attend dinner that night, choosing to remain sequestered in his room. After all these years, he is finally going to be married. It doesn’t feel real.

He sits at a small vanity table by the window, pulling carful fingers through freshly washed curls when the chamber door opens and James Moriarty strides in.

“We missed you at dinner, my dear,” he drawls. “Your brother was all set to announce our wedding, but you were absent.”

Sherlock remains absolutely silent.

“I did not appreciate your behavior at my sister’s funeral,” Moriarty’s voice is dangerously soft. “I expect better from my fiancé.”

“You’ll not get it,” Sherlock states flatly.

Moriarty turns from where he had been scanning the books on the shelf to stare at Sherlock with eyes like a demon’s.

“I would have thought by now your brother would have taught you not to talk back.”

Rage flares in Sherlock's chest, but he clamps down on it. He watches Moriarty approach in the mirror, every instinct he has screams at him to flee, not to allow this man to get any closer.

But he does. He looms over Sherlock with a hand of the back of his chair and catches his eyes in the mirror.

“You know, you’re very pretty Sherlock,” he breathes into his ear, “but you’ve got a stubborn streak, haven’t you? Not to worry, we’ll soon break you of that. I do prefer my pets to be obedient.”

A shiver travels up Sherlock's spine before he can stop it, fear clenching his stomach. Ice settles in his veins as Moriarty runs cold fingers up his neck to the place where his pulse beats.

“Oh,” he sighs, “I cannot wait until you’re my husband, Sherlock. Then I will be free to do as I please with you.”

Weeks later, Sherlock would not remember exactly what happened next. He wouldn’t be sure if Moriarty left the room after he placed a soft kiss to his neck. Or if he had bolted from his own apartment.

The next moment that is clear in his mind is crashing through the doors of his brother’s chamber exclaiming that he would not marry James Moriarty.

“You what?” Mycroft asks, his voice irritated and sour.

“I won’t, I can’t…” Sherlock is out of breath.

“You will do as you are commanded.”

He does not waste another second and drops heavily to his knees.

“Your Majesty, have mercy, please! He is a vile man, do not force me to marry him.”

“He is the son of your country’s greatest ally and far better than you deserve, you ungrateful wretch. You will marry him at midsummer, and I’ll not hear another word on the matter.”

Sherlock feels hateful tears prick his eyes at the thought of a life spent as the husband of James Moriarty and he fears he may be sick. To be beaten is something to which he is accustomed, but the man’s eyes had held promises of a worse fate.

“Brother, I beg you, have mercy.”

The blow comes without warning. Sherlock doesn’t see it coming with his head bowed, and the cane connects mercilessly with his face; making stars dance before his watering eyes. He is mostly certain he did not cry out, as a second blow never came.

“It is clear to me,” Mycroft sneers, “that the stresses of court life have begun to take a toll on you. Perhaps some time to yourself at the marsh house will do you good; it’ll give you a chance to come to your senses before you are wed.”

Sherlock is ushered from the room.

The following evening as Sherlock is hastily throwing his few essential belongings into his trunk, there is a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he snaps. His mind has been racing so fast since being sentenced to exile in all but name, that he doesn’t notice someone has approached him until they speak.

“I hear you’ll be leaving us for a while,” Moriarty coos.

Sherlock jumps, hating himself for it, and whirls around to face his visitor.

“My brother— that is, the king— has suggested that I take some time away from court,” he is almost proud of how measured his voice is.

“But you’re so accustomed to life at court, you’ll climb the walls anywhere else,” Moriarty says, advancing slowly.

That was very likely, and it had been weighing on Sherlock. The idea of the soul-crushing boredom that awaited him was not a pleasant one, but if it meant escaping from this place— if only for a while— then he would take it. Maybe time spent away from the snake pit would help him to figure out how to escape it.

“Well,” Moriarty says, “perhaps I’ll come visit you at the old house on the marsh. I’d imagine it will get quite lonesome out there.”

Sherlock feels his stomach drop into his shoes as Moriarty picks up his left wrist.

“And when you return,” James continues, massaging his fourth finger, “I will put a ring right here, and you will be mine.”

Moriarty twists his wrist and Sherlock feels searing pain shoot up his arm. He screams and jerks back as a fresh wave of agony burns down to his fingertips.

“Bastard!” he barks.

Moriarty crowds into Sherlock's space and takes his face firmly in smooth hands. “I’ll see you very soon, my dear.”

 

_Manor on the Marsh, temporary residence of prince Sherlock, 6 weeks ago_

How exactly a few months had managed to feel like three life times, Sherlock didn’t know. Days blurred together so easily out here where there was nothing. Court life had at least been stimulating.

Now no sooner had he oriented himself on the calendar then another month had gone by. The staff here was small, no more than a few people at a time, all under strict orders not to engage with their master in any way, apparently.

The manor house had once belonged to his mother’s family, of which there were few surviving members. It was usually used as a holiday residence for those Mycroft did not particularly care for. It was a grand house, to be sure, but it was old and badly neglected. The house was drafty on good night, but when the weather turned harsh in winter, Sherlock was sure on more than one occasion that he would freeze to death. Perhaps that would not be such a bad thing.

After five mind-numbing months in exile, whiling away his days lost in his own mind, Sherlock received notice in the form of a carrier bird, that his fiancé had departed from court that morning on his way to pay his husband-to-be a _long overdue visit_.

Sheer panic, of a kind Sherlock liked to pretend he was not capable of feeling, drove him from the manor in the dark hours that night. He had shoved as much food as he could manage into the satchel he’d nicked from the cook, and fled the house out onto the marsh. He did not look back.

 

_Unknown, 4 weeks, 5 days ago_

Water…

He could hear water…

Lapping…

Lapping…

God, he needed water.

He tries to force himself to stand but his limbs will not cooperate. Fever rages through his battered body making the world spin around him. He tries again to stand. This time he gets to his feet, but his body simply gives out before he can take a step. He doesn’t want to try again.

He hears a voice, a sweet voice, and a gentle touch.

_Who are you? What’s happening? It hurts…_

“You’re going to be alright. Hold on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: John leaves on a progress, and he and Sherlock exchange letters while he is away. Afterward, Sherlock confesses all that's in his heart.


	13. The Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has gone on progress leaving Sherlock bored and lonely. They exchange letters and Sherlock decides to tell John about his growing affection for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> I have no excuses for how long this chapter took. Life got busy and then i had an annoyingly long depressive episode, that still hasn't really passed, that kept me from doing basically everything. I'm still going to finish this thing, so don't worry. i am still committed to this story!
> 
> This chapter was written little by little over the past few weeks so i apologize if it feels a bit disjointed.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to those who acknowledge it. I don't personally, but i wish you a wonderful day nonetheless.

Sherlock is lonesome.

He will never admit it to himself, but he knows it to be the truth.

John has only been away from the manor for six days, but to Sherlock's ever-racing mind, it has felt like a year.

The king has gone on progress. Visiting townships and bases to offer what encourage he can to common people and soldiers across the territory. A necessary but spiteful tradition, yet one that John had seemed eager to perform.

Sherlock lies stretched on a sofa in his sitting room, arm flung dramatically over his eyes.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Enter.”

He identifies Mrs. Hudson by her footsteps before she speaks.

“What do you want?”

“Manners, your highness,” she chastises affectionately. She must be very close to John indeed if she can speak so freely to a noble beneath his roof without fear of repercussion.

Sherlock huffs.

“I’ve just come to put away the linens.”

For a minute or so Sherlock listens to the housekeeper stack the neatly folded sheets into the cabinet. He hasn’t slept in his own bed once since the last time the linens were changed, there was really no need to wash them again.

Sherlock's face warms at the memory of the first night he’d shared with John. They’d done nothing since then, but the reality of what they’d done that night frightened him. He had let that beautiful man get closer to him than anyone ever had. The worst part was, he didn’t even particularly mind. In fact, he was absurdly happy.

At least he had been until John had gone away.

         “You miss him,” Mrs. Hudson says quietly. It is not a question.

“He will return at the end of the month,” Sherlock replies logically, though the end of the month seems terribly far away.

“That does not mean you don’t miss him now.”

He feels the edge of a dull ache in his chest he hadn’t noticed before. He has become so accustomed to John's presence that being without him, even after so short a time, feels wrong.

“Why not write to him, I have a list of the families he’s staying with.”

“Because I don’t have a letter set, and even if I did I couldn’t risk using it. if I use his it will look suspicious if he is receiving letters from his own desk. Why would you know where he will be staying?” Sherlock twists around to lean on his elbow so he can look up at the old woman.

“Because I always send him regular reports when he is away from home, he likes to know that all is well here. You may use my set, if you like.”

Sherlock considers for a moment. “Yes,” he says tentatively, “yes, I think I will.”

“Right then, I’ll bring it by this evening. Good day, your highness.”

Sherlock has spent the past five nights in John's bed because it smells of him— ridiculous. Lying next to John at night, and having little else to occupy him during the day had made sleeping appealing for the first time in his life, and Sherlock finds he is more than willing to take advantage of it.

Unfortunately, without John there to anchor him, Sherlock's mind— rebellious even in sleep— wanders to places he does his best not to visit in his waking hours.

Since he awoke in the wee hours three days ago shivering and disoriented, Sherlock has refused to sleep; instead reclining in the king’s bed, knees drawn up, reading by candle light.

Long hours spent straining his eyes in the harsh glow of dancing flames has left him with a vicious headache, and he feels his eyelids growing heavy. Without realizing, he drifts off.

When Sherlock wakes, the sun has begun to set, casting rays of golden light across the carpets. He clambers gracelessly to his feet and picks his way across the room through squinted eyes to drag the curtains closed. His eyes sweep the room and settle on the writing desk. The roll top is open and there is a wooden box resting on the work surface.

Upon inspection, box reveals itself to be Mrs. Hudson’s letter set. Sherlock traces the letter’s engraved in the lid, _M. Hudson_. The box is simple, elegantly cut but rough and unfinished, a dependable object if not very fashionable. Sherlock's own letter set at home is kept in a box made of fine northern wood with a deep scarlet finish, he finds he prefers this one.

Carefully he opens the latch and lifts the lid. He is a little startled by a small something that falls out of a panel hidden in the lid. Sherlock picks up the something which turns out to be a frame in which a portrait has been fixed.

There are three people in the image. The one in the center is obviously Mrs. Hudson. The figures on either side of her appear to be men younger than Sherlock. They obviously share her features. He feels a heaviness settle in his stomach. Mrs. Hudson had never made mention of any family, and she definitely seems the sort to go on and on about those she’s closest to.

Placing the frame gently on the desk he assembles the writing paraphernalia and takes a seat. It’s only after Sherlock has dipped the pen that he realizes he has no idea what he wants to say. What was there to say? He has done very little since John left, spending most of the day draped over furniture— not always pieces appropriate for draping oneself across— and wandering the grounds after dark. What could he say? What did he need to say?

Quite a bit, he realizes slowly, though he hasn’t the slightest idea how to express any of it.

He decides to stop thinking— a near impossibility for Sherlock Holmes— and just start writing something; anything.

 

_John,_

_I realize I never thanked you properly for allowing me to accompany you on the first leg of your progress. I recognized the risk it presented when first I mentioned it to you, but I was so desperate to see the world beyond the manor grounds again that I did not stop to really consider it._

_Not only did the outing relieve the strain of being confined for so long, but I witnessed something truly remarkable while I was hidden away in that coach— the love you bare your people. And how deeply they love you in return. Of course I knew it already, how beloved you are, but to see how they reached for you behind that partition in the road, and to hear the kind words you exchanged was… inspiring._

_I hesitate to say too much here in the event that this letter is seen by others, but I will say that I do not believe I truly understood what being a crown prince meant until I peered through the carriage window and saw you standing amidst a crowds of those whom you serve._

Sherlock pauses his writing and bites his lip. Feeling warmth spread across his face, he decides to be honest.

_Seeing you amongst your people I was proud, so proud of you…_

Sherlock wonders if it would be appropriate to inflict his loneliness on John while he is away from his home on business. A part of him wants badly to share with John how he wishes they were together in this moment, but another part recoils from the idea of deliberately opening himself up in that way.

He decides not to decide and simply allows his fingers to twitch out a parting line.

_I hope all is well with you and that you have received as warm a reception on this latest leg of your journey as you did in your capital._

_Regards,_

_SH_

 

Sherlock secures the letter with a seal before he can think twice about it. The stationary very obviously belongs to the housekeeper with a large H accompanied by a small bird on the wax seal, Sherlock wonders if John will bother to open it at all.

He dips into the ink one more time and scrawls an S above the seal, it was as blatant as he dared be about the identity of the enclosed letter’s author.

 

Sherlock receives a reply two agonizingly dull days later in the form of an unassuming envelope slipped under his door. The letter is addressed anonymously to _The Only Occupied Apartment, East Wing._ He slits his finger in his eagerness to open it.

_Hello,_

_Forgive me, I’m not sure how I should head this, just in case._

_I do not know what to say. Honestly the whole time I was speaking to them all I could think was how badly I wish I could have shown you off to them like the prize you are._

Sherlock flushes.

_I wished I could show them how wonderful you are and how happy you make me. But I suspect you are right on that front, they would likely not take well to your presence here._

_We are now roughly halfway through the second leg of the progress and our procession now finds itself established in a sprawling pasture belonging to a lord. The cows have been moved elsewhere, of course, but we still must be careful of where we plant out feet. Ordinarily I, and those closest to me, would be invited to stay in the family’s homes, but they lost it in a fire a year ago and most of the building has yet to be repaired. I assured lord Eldridge that I am perfectly content to stay in camp with my men, and not to trouble himself._

_Despite the oppressive heat, sprits are high. Circumstances in this region have improved a little over the past weeks owing to what is shaping up to be an unexpectedly good crop, even after they part with the percentage owed to Mycroft, its looking like there may be enough to keep most through the winter. I can’t say how relived I am._

_I was so glad to hear from you. I’ve missed your conversation…among other things. I hope you’re well._

_Yours,_

_John_

Sherlock's stomach flips as he reads the last line.

 _Yours_.

Could it be that John thinks of himself as belonging to Sherlock in some small way? No, of course not, he was only being polite. Still, it warms Sherlock to fancy he holds some claim to John, no matter how absurd the notion.

He slips into Mrs. Hudson’s chamber that same evening when she is at super so as not to disturb her. He goes straight to her little desk upon which sits the letter box she’d reclaimed from him. Sherlock settles himself on the rickety old stool and begins to write.

 

_John,_

_It is a relief to hear that you are all faring well. Mrs. Hudson has asked me to remind you to take ‘special’ care of yourself in this heat. If I’m honest, I find it more and more endearing how she worries for you._

_I had a rather unpleasant experience in the garden last night. The heat of the day had not yet ebbed but I was getting a bit desperate to be free of the manor walls. As I skulked about in the shadows I became aware that the garden was not vacant as I’d thought. There were two men standing beneath a lamp post, pipes dangling from their lips. I was about to sneak away when I heard one of them mutter, “James Moriarty.”_

_For an endless moment I could not move, I was utterly frozen where I stood. I can’t explain it, I’ve never anything like it before— it was not a pleasant feeling. Curiosity compelled me to stay and listen. They were across the garden from where I stood and the hum of insects, which is remarkably raucous in the south, made it difficult to hear the finer details of the conversation._

_From what I could glean, lord Moriarty’s son has been drawing quite a bit of attention of late. Apparently he has taken to spending time with a Colonel Sebastian Moran. The name sounds familiar but I cannot recall if I’ve ever met the man personally. Given what I know of James’ time in the armed forces I can only assume Moran is as loathsome as he is, if he’s caught Moriarty’s attention ~~. I still feel a bit sick at the thought I that man’s hands on me~~_

Sherlock paused for a moment to take a breath and to question why he was bothering John with his meaningless troubles. He refused to admit a part of him just wanted John to reassure him, to tell him it was alright and that he was safe. What absolute nonsense. What absolute, childish nonsense. It wasn’t as though Sherlock could stay in the south forever anyway; he shrank from the thought.

Someday soon he would have to leave the south and return to his home. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say he’d have to leave his home and return to the north. To his own personal hell, and face the man who was still his fiancé as far as he knew, much though the thought disgusted him.

_My curiosity is stubbornly piqued on the topic of Moran, however. I had a look at a few records books in the library this morning but could find no mention of him, which seems to confirm my suspicions._

_I wish you the best. Write soon._

He hesitates for only a moment before concluding.

_Yours,_

_SH_

_Sweetheart,_

_I never met Moran myself, but he did have something of a reputation, and still does evidently. I’ve asked Greg and he tells me that Moran was well known for capturing alleged deserters, traitors, thieves, and the like during the war and delivering them into the hands of the northern inquisitors. That is likely where he first made James Moriarty’s acquaintance._

Sherlock's skin crawls as he recalls the stories he’d heard of the things Moriarty had done.

_As I understand it, the Colonel was supposed to be in hiding somewhere across the eastern sea. He was found guilty of assaulting an officer in the barracks before the war’s end. Greg tells me there were many other charges brought against him but the rape was the only one that they could prove._

_But you needn’t worry, love. You’re far away from them now._

Sherlock feels the ice that had trickled down his spine thaw a little, and his eyes pricked. How did John do that? How could he possibly know just what to say even when he was so far away?

Sweet, wonderful John.

It was here that the tone of the letter seemed to change. The pen pressed just a little harder to the page.

_We will be nearing the boarder before long. The people there are most greatly affected by the ongoing conflict, it would be fair to say they never really recovered from the war. Most live in or on the brink of poverty and I have no fucking clue what I will say to them. I have been given a speech that Mike and Sarah seem to think will placate them, or at least not make tensions any worse. But it just feels so wrote._

_Many of them have lost children to famine and disease, and they are harassed constantly by Mycroft’s border patrol. No words can soothe that._

_Please reply soon. You keep me on my feet._

_Yours,_

_John_

Despite John's request, Sherlock found that words eluded him. He sat to write a reply but he just didn’t know what to say. He had never spoken to his own people before so he could not council John on that matter. Nor had he any idea how to respond to John saying that Sherlock kept him going. John had expressed similar sentiments before, but Sherlock got the impression that this meant more. This was a confession of sorts. John was trying to communicate how he needed Sherlock, and Sherlock was struck dumb.

Someone enters his receiving room while he lies listlessly on the sofa, melting into the velvet with the heat that hangs in the air. He looks up to see Molly, one of the house maids pulling fresh linens from the cabinet.

She baffles him. John had explained that she had once been the daughter of a noble family, all of whom had perished in the war, leaving her the only surviving member. Molly Hooper had been a childhood friend of John's sister, and naturally the king had offered to take her as family in all but blood.

Bizarrely, she had refused. Asking instead for a chance to earn her keep as a member of his staff. Even more bizarrely, John had agreed. But the woman seemed to have no objections to her work and did it with a good natured smile. Even so, Sherlock had done his best to avoid getting in her way since then.

“Is everything alright, your highness?” Molly’s quiet voice said from behind his head.

He felt a bit less awkward speaking to her since learning about her life as nobility, he did not stop to ponder the implications of that. How to explain?

“A letter,” Sherlock replies vaguely.

“Oh,” she said as though she were trying to understand, “you’ve received a letter?”

“Yes, but I’ve no clue what to do about it,” he muttered irritably.

“Usually people reply to those. You know, write back.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but crack a smile at the playfulness in her voice and he made himself sit up to look at her.

“But the issue of what to reply with is what’s troubling me.”

“Ah, I see. Well, why not start with your feelings,” Molly said simply.

Sherlock had to bite back a laugh. “My what?”

She was unfazed by his scathing tone. “I find that when I can’t decide what to write in a letter I start with how I’m feeling and go from there.”

Sherlock chewed the inside of his lip as he considered.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” he hoped it sounded as genuine as he meant it.

“Hope it helps,” Molly said kindly and excused herself to the bedroom to continue with her work.

He reclined his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Could he do something like that, just pour his heart out in a letter the way romantic idiots did? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

 

_John,_

_I wish I had better advice for you. I’ve never addressed my people before, much less people who are struggling. Speak from your heart, that golden heart full of so much love that it can mend even the deepest of wounds. Speak to them the way you speak to me, honestly and without pretense. Show them the love you show me._

_There are so many things I want to tell you. Like how you have made me happier in just these past few weeks than I have ever been. Or how I find my regard for you growing each day._

Sherlock's heart skipped, he felt oddly daring seeing these words written down.

 _But I am torn between saying it all here and waiting until you’ve returned to me so that I may say it all while looking into your eyes_.

He felt his face flush, he never spoken this way to anyone. Well he’d never felt this way about anyone, as trite and that sounded to his own ears.

Something hot and dangerous flared in his chest. He swallowed down the nervous lump in his throat, feeling like a love-sick fool.

_I’ll say this to you now—_

_You have lit a fire in me, my dear John, and I fear i shall  burn away to cinders if you are not soon again in my arms._

_All my love,_

_SH_

He sealed the saccharine words away in the envelope before he could stop himself, heart racing. His fingers shook slightly and a ridiculous grin pulled at his lips.

 

It took Sherlock a considerable effort to hand the letter over to Mrs. Hudson to be dispatched, and he is pretty sure he was blushing furiously as he did so, unable to meet her eyes.

That night Sherlock lay in bed, attempting to sleep despite the heat and his overactive mind. Several times he had to restrain himself from sneaking into Mrs. Hudson’s room to retrieve the letter before it could be posted. But he remained firmly in his bed until morning, though sleep did not come.

Two days passed with no reply.

That was alright, John was busy and far from home, it would take longer than a couple of days for post from the king’s party to reach the manor.

Three days, four days, and then five.

This was not good.

Sherlock chewed his lip trying not to jump to conclusions. He paced back and forth across his room, running his fingers through his hair. What if he had been too forward, what is he’d presumed too much? What if his confession had simply frightened John away? And he would be rejected, if gently so, upon the king’s return.

He had stopped himself from going to Mrs. Hudson to inquire about the post, for fear that he just simply had not received a response. In the funny way she often did, the housekeeper appeared in his room just as he was thinking of her; the woman’s timing was becoming a bit unsettling now.

She entered without a curtsey and didn’t seem to be able to look at him. He saw that her eyes were swollen. Sherlock's chest tightened and he did not speak. Though dozens of questions caught in his throat at her obvious distress, he dared not ask them.

Instead he waited, spine straight and jaw clenched as Mrs. Hudson quickly swiped at her eyes, probably hoping he hadn’t seen, and carefully closed the door behind her.

“I apologize, your highness,” she said, voice thick.

Her overly formal tone did nothing to calm him. It was as though she were forcing herself to remain composed

“I meant to tell you this yesterday when we got the news, but everything was so chaotic that I simply lost track of time.”

“What’s happened?” Sherlock manages to say, and is pleased at how even his voice sounds.

She clears her throat and wrings her hands.

“Around noon yesterday we received a letter from the earl with whom the king and his company where to lodge for the next stop on their progress. He said the company never arrived and he was becoming concerned.”

“Get to the point.” Sherlock barked, nails digging into his palms.

Mrs. Hudson jumped and stood a little straighter.

“A party was dispatched to locate them, to see if they’d simply become lost or delayed. They discovered caravan late last night badly damaged, it’s believed they were ambushed” she paused to swallow hard, “there were no survivors.”

It took every ounce of Sherlock’s considerable self-control to clamp down on the sheer panic that erupted in him.

“And what of the king?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“He and his men were nowhere to be found, their carriage was with the rest but they were not in it. But, Sherlock dear, they found blood inside; quite a bit I was given to understand.”

She had gone very pale, and Sherlock thought he probably looked the same. Through the ringing in his ears he helped her to a chair and made her sit. Dropping heavily to his knees beside her. He fought to keep his mind from wandering too deep into the implication of what he’d just been told.

Mrs. Hudson sniffed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“This doesn’t mean that he’s—” she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it. “For all we know he’s perfectly safe and unharmed.”

Sherlock very much doubted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time we'll find out what has become of John. Hopefully he's alright.
> 
> PS: Someone asked me recently if I hate Mycroft. Yes and no, he's one of those characters i love to hate. i think he fills the role of purely evil antagonist rather well, but i don't "hate" him ^^)


	14. The Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has an epiphany!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,  
> We are past the halfway point now, at least. Like I said, this story is likely to be between 24-26 chapters. Kind of a short on e this time.

He was helpless, useless, just like always.

John was missing, or worse, and there was nothing he could do.

Sherlock paced the servant’s tunnels endlessly, too manic to rest for even a moment. Each time he tried to sit and gather his thoughts, rising panic would drive him to his feet again. He wanted to hit something, to smash his fists against the wall until they bled. But his anger was a futile one.

There was nothing at all he could do.

And if John was dead, a thought that made him feel like the ground would give way beneath his wandering feet, what did that mean for Sherlock? He resented that he was thinking of himself in this moment when John's fate— and the fate of his realm as a result— was so uncertain, but he couldn’t help it.

John was the one assuring his safety, if he was gone Sherlock would have no choice but to leave too. To return to the north where Mycroft would find a way to learn where he had been and Sherlock hated to think of what his brother may do; not to him, but to John's kingdom for hiding him. Through John he had become rather fond of the southern people, though he had yet to meet them, and he found himself worrying for their safety as John did.

Sherlock honestly didn’t know if he could bring himself to go home, back to that dismal palace where nothing but pain and endless isolation awaited him. He wondered briefly if it wouldn’t just be easier to die.

But there was no sense in making any decision on the matter until he knew what had become of John. He felt so helpless trapped in this place while John was lost somewhere. He could do nothing for him, nothing at all.

Sherlock looks up from his shoes to find he is behind a familiar door, the tunnel door that leads into the king’s apartment. As he places his hand on the latch to open it, he hopes that he will walk through to find John in his chair by the empty hearth, smiling and apologizing for being away for so long.

But no, John is not there, his chair is empty and the room is eerily still.

Without thinking Sherlock sinks into John's chair, ignoring the one opposite where he would normally sit. He tucks his knees up to his chin and buries his face in them.

There had to be something he could do. He retreats into the halls of his mind, combing through possible plans of action.

He could simply borrow a horse from the stables and ride out to find John himself. No, he didn't know the south and though it may feel worth the risk to find John, rationally he knows it isn’t wise to chance getting lost himself or discovered.

He could… He could…

A growl of frustration tore from his throat. There had to be other options but his mid was too spent to come up with anything useful.

Picking his head up his eyes fall on a little box on the table beside the chair, inside Sherlock finds John's strand of silver prayer beads. He pulls them out and wraps them around his hand the way he’d seen John do, imagining they are still warm from his skin. It’s comforting to hold something John treasures.

He leans back and presses his face into the blanket draped over the back of the chair. It smells deliciously of John. He knows it’s irrational to avoid the possibility of John being dead. He knows in his overly-logical mind that the smarter thing to do would be to plan his escape from this place and what he will do once he’s accomplished that.

But his heart, which he had assumed until recently was hard as stone, ached at the idea of just leaving without first knowing what had become of the man he loves.

Sherlock froze.

He let that last thought sink in.

The fear that burned anew in him then had nothing to do with the new and world-altering realization that he was in love. No, it was not that the cold and calculating Sherlock Holmes, ice prince of the north was deeply, madly, passionately in love with the king of the south. No, it was the idea that he may never get to tell John how he feels.

He curled in on himself. He wished dearly that he had not held back in that final letter. He wished he’d have written down everything he’d been too afraid to express in the moment. Then, if John were truly gone from him, perhaps he might have received the letter first and had a chance to know all that Sherlock now accepted was in his heart. Rather than some vague and selfish line about cinders and longing.

_Come home, John. Come back to me, please. Please…_

Sherlock did not realize he had fallen asleep until he was jolting awake, the image of John being held by merciless northern inquisitors still flashing crimson before his eyes.

He was soaked through and he felt as though his skin were on fire. Dimly he realized that in sleep he had pulled the blanket around himself despite the heat in the room. Mopping his brow with his sleeve, Sherlock rose and went to throw open the window.

A blissful breeze cooled him and he braced himself on the frame, head hung low between his shoulders, drawing slow breaths to calm himself. It sickened him to know it was very likely that John was even now in the hands of northerners, if he was in fact alive. Sherlock tried not to think of what may be happening to his dear John even now.

 _Calm yourself! John has barely been missing a single day and you’re already going to pieces_.

He looked out at the horizon, a brilliant summer sunset lit up the sky like wildfire. His eyes fell on a small structure just around the corner, partially hidden by the opposite wall across the garden. It looked like an old shed of some sort, and Sherlock felt his mind begin to work.

He flew from John's chambers and through the tunnels, colliding painfully with a wall more than once. He found Mrs. Hudson in the servant’s quarters rather than in her own room, she squeaked as he burst through the door.

“Sherlock, whatever is the matter?”

“How can I contact whoever is leading the search for John and his men?” he said in a rush, not even stopping to catch his breath.

“I could maybe send out a bird for you, what’s wrong?”

“Whether they were taken or they fled from whomever attacked them, they can’t have gotten far. The search party will check homes and farms along the main road, and then branch out onto backroads and into the forests; and by then it may already be too late. If they’re alive and being held it will be somewhere far from the roads and out of sight of passersby.” Words poured from him, his mind racing.

“Here,” Mrs. Hudson said fretfully, “write it down and I’ll send it out right away.”

She directed his attention to a cupboard on the wall from which she produced a ledger and writing utensils. She tore free a sheet form the book and opened the ink well. Sherlock did his best to steady his hand so that his instruction would be legible.

When he had written down everything he deemed relevant, doing his best to avoid extraneous detail as to not confuse whoever read it, he handed the sheet to Mrs. Hudson and kissed her cheek before she bustled out of the room.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, there was nothing to do now but wait. He was surprised to find that John's beads were still wrapped around his hand. He ran the tips of his fingers over them, hoping that whoever received his instructions would bother to heed them, the letter was not sighed after all.

An ambushed caravan. It was a scenario so morbidly familiar that Sherlock almost laughed. Had John gone the same way as Sherlock's mother and father? He had not lost any sleep over the deaths of his parents, no matter how violent their end. If John did not return however, Sherlock didn’t think he would ever sleep again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time,  
> Hopefully Sherlock will hear some news of John.
> 
> I really like "You can be king again" by Lauren Aquilina as a theme of sorts for this story. 
> 
> Please comment I need the validation lol. Just kidding, you don't have to ^^


	15. The Cinders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock catches fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,  
> I am on a freaking roll right now, y'all! Someone very generously got me coffee in the middle of writing this so i had to stop to go get it, and when i came back to it the spark was gone. You know how that happens? So i feel like there is a pretty obvious tonal shift half way through, but whatever.
> 
> Enjoy, As always, comments are very appreciated!

Pillars of lamp light from the garden cut across the floor of Sherlock's room. He had extinguished the candles when the glare of the flames had begun to hurt his eyes. He lay the wrong way on his bed so that he could catch a glimpse of the sky through the window. Ambient light blocked the stars from view but he could just see the half-moon emerging from behind a voluminous cloud.

The sky hung low, clouds heavy with impending rain, and thunder rolled ominously overhead. Listlessly he craned his neck to get a look at the clock on the mantle, it was after midnight. Ordinarily he would have quit his apartment the moment the manor was still, but tonight he couldn’t be bothered. He wasn’t even particularly bothered by the idea that his lethargy meant it would be another full day before he’d be able to move freely about the grounds again.

He closes his eyes and listens to the ticking of the time piece which filled the warm, wet air around him.

Sherlock is miserable.

His wrist aches horribly. He’d been wringing his hands most of the day— a ridiculous habit— which he suspects had aggravated the injury that had not yet fully healed; despite John's attentions. He scratches at the bandages that bind the offending joint as he unwillingly recalls the feeling of Moriarty snapping it. He shivers.

Sherlock wonders if he would always feel the pain of it. Was it possible he could ever completely mend?

John has been missing for two full days now, and there has been no new information, at least none that has reached him.

Sherlock knew of a particularly horrific practice used by northern inquisitors that involved the breaking of digits. He knew because he had once been threatened with it if he did not comply with his brother’s demands. And when he had drifted off that morning the memory of the sound of his own wrist breaking merged with the fantasy of John's gentle fingers being cracked and Sherlock had awakened with tears in his eyes. He decided that sleep with not worth the trouble until John returned.

An outcome that was seeming less and less likely to Sherlock as the hours crept by.

But he was tired, he had perhaps gotten what amounted to two or three decent nights of rest since John had gone on progress, and that was well over a fortnight ago.

He did not sleep but rather drifted in the place just beyond wakefulness. There he remained for what may have been hours. It was in that dreamless place that a long forgotten memory came back to him.

A dog. A large dog with a fine coat red as ocher.

Sherlock is small in this memory, no more than nine or ten years old. He is stumbling along the rocky bank of a stream that runs down from the cliffs above. The water is so cold it burns his bare feet, but the shock of it is exhilarating. The dog bounds along nearby, scaring birds out of the sparse shrubs and chasing them back and forth across the creek bed, splashing Sherlock until he is soaked through.

It is high summer, the only warm part of the year in the far north and Sherlock tilts his face to the sky to feel the sun. He feels free and happy as he watches his beloved dog romp, Redbeard seems even more excited than he is to be out of the palace and hidden away behind the cliffs where no one will bother them. The hum of the stream fills his awareness and swells until it becomes almost a roar.

Sherlock opens his eyes and the rocky creek fades away. He realizes then that the roaring he’d heard in his sleepy memory had actually been the pounding of rain as the skies had opened.

Groggily Sherlock clambers out of bed to shut the window before the rain can pour into the room. When the latch clicks shut Sherlock presses his wrist against the cool glass, it helps a little. That is when he spots something rather odd down in the garden. Two young men, stable boys by the look of them, were racing across the courtyard up to the house. What business did stable boys have in the manor? As they pass under a lamp post Sherlock can see that they wear huge smiles on their faces.

A stray sound reaches his ears, the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall outside his apartment. He is the only occupant of this wing, so it must be the footfalls and excited voices of staff members. He thought he could hear the distant hum of activity that he imagined must be coming from the direction of the entrance hall.

Sherlock feels something like hope suddenly bubble up in him and he is through the nearest tunnel door in a heartbeat. He flew down a narrow flight of stairs only just wide enough to fit into and ran as fast as he could in the confined space, bare feet clapping against the stone floor.

He arrives at a door that opened onto the foyer and forces himself to stop and draw a few long breaths before clasping the handle. He only opens the door a crack to avoid being noticed. It seemed as though the entire staff had gathered in the large room. They chatted animatedly to one another, some threw their arms around the person closest to them, and a few appeared to bow their heads in prayer.

Sherlock's chest tightened with anticipation.

 _Please, please, let it be true_.

The hall went very still for a moment as the large main doors slowly opened. The silence is broken only a moment later by the cheers that erupted through the room.

Sherlock twists this way and that trying to see over the heads that block his view. It is no good, the door and the people gathered closest to it are at the top of the stairs and whoever had just entered was below, making it impossible to see them.

Another cheer goes up as Molly’s voice at the front of the pack cries, “Welcome home, your majesty.”

Sherlock could have sobbed with relief.

“Thank you, thank you all,” says John's lovely voice, “but I think what my men and I need now is a good night’s rest.”

A wave of good natured chuckles moves around the room.

“Please return to your chambers, rest,” the king insists, and the crowd parts so that he can ascend the stairs.

Halfway up the main stair case something draws John's attention momentarily to the door hidden in the wall. For a flash Sherlock meets John's gaze and quickly disappears behind the panel.

John would return to his chambers on the floor above, Sherlock knew exactly which door he was looking for. As he tears through the tunnels anticipation made his legs shake and his lips curved into a ridiculous grin.

But then he stills, an unpleasant thought halting his feet and chilling him. He had not waited to see John's reaction to his being there. He likely had not expected it. what if he didn’t want to see Sherlock?

John was alive, and Sherlock was so giddy with relief that he had not stopped to consider whether or not John had received that damned letter. There was still the very real possibility that John had not wanted to read the things that Sherlock had written. And if he had not wanted to hear those sweet but vague words, he certainly would not want to hear all the rest of it.

Sherlock felt stupid, so very, very stupid. He had let sentiment run away with him. He had been so consumed by the feeling of falling for John, that he had not stopped to consider if John returned his feelings— or if he did, how fervently. If he had only stepped back for a moment to observe, this would not have happened.

He hears the distant creak of a door and a voice call, “Sherlock!”

“John!”

His legs are moving again before he realizes.

“Sherlock!” John's voice comes again, and Sherlock calls back.

They call out for each other as Sherlock races through the tunnels. John's voice grows louder and louder, and all Sherlock wants is to be near to his John again, all the rest can wait.

Something crashes into Sherlock and he is shoved rather violently back against the wall, breath rushing from his lungs. Lips press against his mouth, warm and insistent. Sherlock barely registers what’s happening. He is kissing and kissing, and he feels firm hands dig into his hips and waist as his own hands come up to cup and caress.

The tunnels are so dark that Sherlock can hardly see, but the feeling of John pressed against him is so familiar he doesn’t need to see to know its him.

Sherlock feels something hot and desperate set his veins on fire and he whimpers helplessly into Johns mouth. John breaks their kiss with a brush of knuckles against Sherlock’s cheek, and that is when he becomes aware that his face is wet.

“John,” he tries to speak but his voice won’t come.

“Yes, my sweet?” his voice is so soft.

“I thought… I thought…”

“ _Sshh,_ I’m here,” John whispers, kissing along Sherlock's jaw and pulling him as close as they could get.

Sherlock melts into him, arms wrapping around John and holding tight, as though this wonderful man were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He presses a hard, sucking kiss to John's neck and revels in the sound it elicits.

Everything becomes a blur then as they begin pulling and tearing at each other’s clothes. John yanks the hem of Sherlock's shirt from his waistband and runs his palms up Sherlock's middle. Sherlock arches into the touch, relishing the feeling of John's hands on his skin.

John licks down the column of Sherlock's neck as he undoes the top buttons of his shirt one-handed. He pauses then and pull back a little and Sherlock takes the chance to catch his breath. John slips his fingers under Sherlock's collar and pulls out the strand of silver beads looped around his long neck.

“What’s this?” John asks running his fingers over the beads.

“Oh, I…” Sherlock feels his face flush. He had forgotten about the beads. He hadn’t wanted to put them away but they were becoming a nuisance wrapped around his hand, so he’d decided to wear them.

“It was something of a comfort,” he murmurs, “It’s an item you value, and it kept you close.”

John makes a sort of cooing noise and tugs on the beads to pull Sherlock down into another kiss. It’s different now, slower, sweeter. John wraps his arms securely around Sherlock, and Sherlock in return runs gentle hands over John's face, smoothing the lines from his brow and scratching in the hair behind his ears.

Sherlock sucks languidly on John's tongue, something he’d discovered John loved, and he finds the response of fingertips pressing hard into his back very gratifying.

He feels himself calming slightly, anchored and soothed by John's presence, their separation at last concluded.

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock whispers.

“God yes,” John breathes and reluctantly pulls himself away from Sherlock to take him by the hand.

John presses Sherlock down in to the mattress and plants a kiss on his lips. Sherlock, trying his best to focus through the haze of arousal, pulls at John's still buttoned shirt.

“Alright, alright,” John laughs against his mouth, “hold on.”

John sits back on Sherlock's thighs and begins to undo the buttons.

Fuck that.

Thunder cracks and the sky lights up as Sherlock grabs the silk in his fists and rips it apart, tiny pearl disks scattering to the floor. John's answering growl makes heat pool in Sherlock's groin and he yanks down hard on John's collar so he can claim his mouth.

He couldn’t fathom where this forcefulness was coming from. The first and only other time he had been with John he had been down right timid, at least to his own perception. He had been reserved and self-conscious. It had been wonderful, but he had been so unsure. Now he felt no reservation, only longing and the need to ease the fear that lingered in him.

John rose up on his knees to allow Sherlock to pull his legs free of his trousers, he very deliberately ran the top of his foot along John's length as he did so.

“Oh, you wicked thing,” he moaned through a shudder.

Sherlock's kiss-swollen mouth curls into a cheeky grin and he bites his lip, wriggling impatiently.

“God’s sake, John,” he says, wanting to sound demanding but instead sounding desperate, “please.”

John chuckles darkly, “Patience.”

He reaches over to pull open the little drawer in the bedside table to produce the little pot of oil he stashed there.

He pins Sherlock's right hand above his head and Sherlock holds onto John's wrist with his damaged hand. Bent over Sherlock so that their body came together John dips his fingers into the oil and takes them both in hand.

Sherlock arches and gasps at the first strokes and John sighs beautifully, Sherlock can feel the exhalation against his neck. They are slick with sweat and the sheets stick to Sherlock's back, tangling beneath him as he writhes and thrusts up into John's fist.

It hardly takes more than a minute.

“John, John, John” Sherlock pants, voice straining, “oh, god, I, I…”

“It’s alright,” John breathes against his mouth, they aren’t exactly kissing simply sharing air, “I’m here, let go. I have you.”

Sherlock cries out incoherently as his climax takes him, his awareness narrowing down to only his labored breathing, the agonizingly pleasurable release of his muscles, and the distant roll of thunder.

So lost is he in the pulsing aftershocks that he doesn’t at first realize that John is still stroking himself.

Blearily, Sherlock frees his hand and wraps his shaking fingers around John's pumping fist.

“Come for me,” he demands.

And John does.

The smell of sex and sweat hangs in the damp air of John's bed chamber. He lies with his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest and Sherlock plants little kisses in his hair.

Together they drifted in and out of sleep for the better part of an hour, simply being in each other’s company. John's hand crept up Sherlock's chest to his throat where his fingers curled around the silver beads still resting there.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John says, “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You’re home, it doesn’t matter now.”

“It does,” John insisted, “of course it does.” He lifts his head to look into Sherlock's face.

“If you truly wish to set my mind at ease, tell me what happened.”

“We were ambushed.”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock huffs, but quieted at the somber look on John's face. “Go on,” he says, rubbing a thumb across John's jawline.

John draws in a long breath.

“We were passing through a forest at the northern edge of a county east of here.”

“Why would you get so close to the border?”

“A shortcut. I know, it was reckless. We were moving through a heavily wooded part of the road when they were suddenly on top of us. There are high ridges on either side of the road, intended to protect travelers from being set upon. It’s no help if your assailants forego carriages and horses in favor of lurking behind the tree line.”

“How many were there?”

“Two dozen, at least.”

“And they managed to…” Sherlock trails off not wishing to upset John by asking how only two dozen assassins had managed to kill and entire progress party. “How did they conquer you all so quickly, you had so many people with you.”

“Yes I did, and I could do nothing to protect them.” John's voice is dark as he says this. “Greg grabbed me and a few of my men and ushered us into the trees. I could hear the clash of blades as we ran. I abandoned them.”

“John,” Sherlock says as gently as he knows how, “you are the king, your life is far too valuable to risk in an unwinnable battle.”

“Yes well, that is not how my father brought me up. A king’s place is beside his people. But I ran because I was afraid. A coward then, a coward now.”

_A coward then?_

It pained Sherlock to see John so defeated. This beautiful man shouldn’t have to carry yet another regret with him, his burden was heavy enough.

“No one even seemed to notice when we slipped away. Pits, the man who lead the search party who found us said there was blood in my carriage, I can’t imagine whose.

We just kept moving until we happened upon a half collapsed barn. Apparently the land used to belong to a noble family before the war, don’t know how I forgot that. We stowed away in that shack until we were finally found. We didn’t know if it would be wise to venture out in case those rouges were nearby, so we laid low.

I just kept thinking _what if they come back, what if they find us?_ I’m not proud of that.”

“You were concerned for your safety, there is no shame in that. fear is a natural reaction to a threat.”

“But you see, I wasn’t thinking of myself, or even what would become of my realm without me. I was thinking of you.”

Sherlock's heart skips, he is sure John would have felt it beneath his palm.

“You were thinking of me?” he repeats stupidly.

“I was concerned about what would happen to you if I never returned. I was terrified I would never see you again, and…”

John lifted himself onto his elbow, his damaged shoulder must have twinged because he flinched. He cups Sherlock's face and looks deep into his eyes.

“Tell me,” John murmurs, his voice gone so low and husky as to make Sherlock flush.

“Hmm?” he replies.

“Have you burned away to cinders? Have I returned in time to save you?”

I terrifying yet invigorating thrill races through Sherlock's body and he feels his throat constrict.

“Because,” John swallows and clears his throat, “you’ve lit a fire in me as well, Sherlock. And I do believe I’ve fallen in love with you.”

For a moment Sherlock can’t draw breath. He lies very still letting John's words wash over him.

He tries to deny it. his rebellious, doubting mind screams that it could not possibly be true— that it was just the emotion of the last few days getting the better of them both. But his heart, which felt full to bursting with love for this remarkable man, whispered the truth.

Sherlock forces John over and straddles him, claiming his mouth in a kiss so fierce it hurts. He kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

John laugh breathlessly into Sherlock's questing mouth and Sherlock laughs too. John slips his fingers into Sherlock's hair to hold him in place and runs a soothing hand along his curving spine.

He feels both elated and slightly sick at the same time. Its only after a sweet, frenzied minute of kissing John that he realizes he has yet to say anything.

Sherlock breaks their kiss and sucks in a ragged breath to whisper, “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected this story to have more than maybe one or two explicit sex scenes because i have basically no experience writing them. This was the first time doing it with any kind of seriousness... anyway.
> 
> Next time, the boys beat the heat.


	16. The Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John find a way to escape the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,
> 
> Two chapters in a day, what is this?
> 
> I'm not sure why this is even in my outline, its just fluffy smut, no plot. But here you are anyway.

Sherlock stood on the stoop of the old scullery fanning himself with his shirt. The sun beat down on him, scorching his skin. John had asked him to meet him around the back of the manor where they would not be seen, and Sherlock had been waiting for a long time. It had been so long since he’d seen the sun that it felt all the more blistering on his skin.

He was beginning to wonder if John had simply forgotten their meeting when he heard the sound of hooves approaching. He glanced over to see John rounding the corner on his grey gelding,

“I’m sorry for making you wait, I had difficulty convincing my guards to allow me to ride out unaccompanied.”

“And where is it that you are riding out to?” Sherlock asked, arms crossed fussily over his chest.

John pulled his horse up at the edge of the stoop and held out his hand to Sherlock. “ _We_ are going to the lake.”

Sherlock stared at John's hand, a little confused. “What for?”

John gave a patient sigh, “Because it’s bloody scorching and I need a swim, and I would very much like for you to accompany me.”

Hardly about to turn down an opportunity to spend time alone with John outside the manor walls, Sherlock grabs the king’s hand and climbs up behind him.

It occurs to Sherlock as they begin their trek, that this is exactly how they’d sat on the morning John had found him in the woods. Sherlock leaning against John, barely alive, clinging to the sound of his voice to remain conscious.

A creeping unease settled in Sherlock's gut at the memory. He had been so close to death, closer even than he had realized; or so John had explained once he had recovered. To wake from that limbo of fever and fear to find this beautiful man waiting for him on the other side was a gift Sherlock still could not believe was his.

Sherlock wraps his arms securely around John's waist and rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Alright?” John asks, placing a hand over Sherlock's clasped wrists.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock murmurs and plants a kiss behind his ear.

They continue on in silence for long, peaceful minutes, the forest alive with the sounds of summer. At one point Sherlock's attention is caught by the warbling of a song bird high in the trees. There were no song birds in the far north, only austere birds of prey.

They emerge from the trees onto the bank of the lake which is smooth as glass. Rather than stopping right there and dismounting, their horse continues plodding until they reached a small dock on the other side of the water.

John swung a leg over and slid out of the saddle, offering Sherlock a hand to help him down. It was a bizarrely chivalrous gesture that made Sherlock feel warm inside. As he dismounted he slid right into John's embrace and he cupped his face to kiss him.

Sherlock was bid to wait a moment while John relieved the horse of its heavy tack and turned it loose to graze. The water looked very inviting. The clear surface reflected the blue of the sky above, and anything that brought respite from this damned heat was more than welcome.

When Sherlock turns to check if John has finished with the horse, he sees that he has already shucked his vest and boots and is now shrugging out of his shirt.

John gives him a look full of suggestion and quirks a brow.

“Come on then,” he says, “you aren’t planning to swim fully clothed, are you?”

Sherlock hadn’t actually considered it.

He begins to undo his own buttons slowly, watching John to see how far he will undress and planning to follow his lead. He is completely unprepared when John steps out of his last stitch of clothing, tossing the trousers playfully onto the dock, and makes nonchalantly for the water.

He is so unashamed and at ease that Sherlock feels a little of his own self-consciousness melt away. Pulling in a fortifying breath, Sherlock steps out of his trousers and drops his sweat-damp shirt onto the grass. He has never been naked out of doors before, it’s both horrifying in how exposed it makes him feel and oddly freeing. At least he is safe from prying eyes.

Well, not completely.

John has stepped into the water, his feet breaking the stillness and he holds out a hand to Sherlock who takes hold and steps in himself. The water is blissfully cold, providing relief to their overheated skin.

Sherlock choses to remain where his feet can still touch the ground. He is not the strongest swimmer owing to lifetime spent in almost perpetual winter. John leaves him there and swims out further, diving under and giving Sherlock a perfect view of his ass.

He rolls his eyes, even as he feels himself twitch at the display.

Sherlock lifts his knees and allows himself to float, suspended weightless in the water, eyes closed. He hears the light slashing as John returns to him. his hair is adorably mussed from where he’d run his hands through it upon surfacing.

“Hello, beautiful,” he greets with a smile.

“Flatterer,” Sherlock chides, but there is no bite in it. Truthfully he loves the way John always has a kind word for him. It’s a novel concept, these pet names.

John pulls him in and kisses him deeply. It doesn’t feel like an innately sexual act, this exploratory kissing. Even as the kisses grow hungrier until they are forcing their tongues down one another’s throats, it feels more to Sherlock like a display of intimacy and passion rather than to simply achieve release.

However, intimacy and passion have very obvious effects on the body and Sherlock soon feels the effect theirs has on John press into his hip. He chuckles.

Sherlock is going to speak when he sees a flicker of something unhappy cross John's face.

“What is it?”

John nods his head to indicate some place over Sherlock's shoulder. For a moment Sherlock fears he’ll turn to discover they are being watched, but he is met by only trees and the ridge that lay beyond the shrubs on the other side of the path.

“That is where I found you,” John offers by way of explanation and Sherlock feels John's fingers tighten around his waist.

Sherlock makes John look at him and smooths the furrow from his brow with the pad of a thumb. Sherlock moves around John so that he no longer has to look at that place that upset him so.

“Do not think of it, love,” he says.

John's lip twitch into a smile.

“What?”

“You called me love,” he replies playfully, “you don’t use endearments.”

“Well,” Sherlock huffs good naturedly, “today I do.”

John sighs a laugh and presses a light kiss to Sherlock's lips.

“You are, you know,” Sherlock whispers after a while.

“I am what?”

“My love.”

They lie together on the dock; the blanket John had used to pad his saddle spread out beneath them. Sherlock's curls have sun-dried to a fluffy mess, a dark halo that sticks out every which way from his head. John seems to find this amusing because he is propped on his elbow continually carding his fingers through it, which may be contributing to the disarray.

Sherlock feels a surge of daring overtake him and he clasps John's hand and places it on his growing erection.

“Touch me,” he murmurs.

John gives a playful chuckle, “I am touching you.”

“No,” Sherlock whines with a shift of his hips, “ _touch me_.”

“Ah,” John says, feigning as though he’d finally understood, “you mean you want me to get you off.”

Sherlock flushes furiously. “i-If you must ph-phrase it that way.,” he stammers indigently, averting his eyes.

John must find this endearing in some way because Sherlock can feel his smile though the kisses he places on his cheek.

“You are absolutely precious— do you know that? What do you have to be so shy about, hmm?”

“I am still unused to this,” Sherlock reminds him.

“I’ve not forgotten,” John replies in a way that says he understands Sherlock's inexperience and subsequent timidity, and that he would never dare betray the trust placed in him.

“Actually,” John continues, “I wonder if you would like to try something new.”

Sherlock gives him a look of apprehension. The last time John had suggested this had been the night he’d come home. In the hour before dawn he had taken Sherlock in his mouth a sucked him to a screaming, toe-curling finish.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, nerves and excitement waring in him.

Hand still resting over Sherlock, who was now fully hard, John says, “Well, I thought I could try using my fingers. If that’s something that appeals to you. I would only need one.”

It takes a full five seconds for Sherlock to comprehend what John was referring to, and his eyes go very wide as it hits him.

 “Here?” Sherlock practically squeaks, incredulous.

He had never done it to himself before, it never seemed worth the effort and the thought of someone else being the first to do it made him feel exposed and a little afraid.

But the last time he’d consented to something that had initially put him off John had made it wonderful, and if this was even half as incredible as that night had been…

“I suppose,” he finally answers, “but we don’t have anything for it.”

John bites his lip sheepishly and stretches up to retrieve the trousers he’d flung carelessly aside as he’d stripped. From the pocket he produces a vial of the same green-tinted oil they use in the bedroom.

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock drawls with mock imperiousness, “so you’ve had designs upon me all along.”

“Of course,” John agrees with a smirk, “I schemed to get you alone so that I could ravish you where no one will hear you scream my name.”

Heat flares in Sherlock and he throbs beneath John's palm.

“Do you want to?”

“God yes.”

 John's mouth explores his body for long minutes, rendering Sherlock pliant and breathless as he leaks onto his own abdomen, fluid pooling in his naval. By the time John at last gets around to slicking his fingers, Sherlock is already panting.

He feels a flicker of anxiety as he hears the stopper pulled from the vial with a small pop. John shifts to kneel between Sherlock's legs, which fall open willingly for him, despite his nerves Sherlock trusts this man.

John sucks a hard kiss into the most sensitive part of Sherlock's inner thigh, making him sigh. He places the pad of his finger to Sherlock's entrance and begins to press, massaging to ease the muscle.

Eventually John requests permission with a fervent look, and Sherlock nods his assent; biting back a gasp as John's finger breeches his body.

It’s horrible, he thinks, invasive and uncomfortable. He squirms and whimpers, fighting the urge to demand John stop.

“Hush, sweetheart,” John coos, peppering kisses up and down Sherlock's thighs, “it’s alright, I’ve got you, relax. I’ll make it good for you, I promise, but I need for you to relax.”

Sherlock draws in slow, deep breaths and wills the tension to leave his body. The discomfort ebbs almost the moment he does, and he sighs as the fullness begins to feel more and more wonderful.

“That’s it, my darling.”

If just one finger could feel so big in him, Sherlock had to wonder what it would be like to take John into his body properly, a thought that has him writhing on the blanket.

“More,” Sherlock says, voice already wrecked and shaky.

John pushes in to the second knuckle and all the way a moment later. He begins to gently work the digit in and out, opening Sherlock with deliberate slowness.

“John,” Sherlock moans, “please, I need more. Faster, deeper, something.”

John smirks and crooks his finger.

Sherlock's back snaps up off the dock and he cries out. Sparks dance along his nerves and something hot and delicious erupts from within him.

“Oh, god, John!” he moans. “Fuck!”

Sherlock never swears, but he cannot think of another way to communicate. He can hardly think at all. He had known the pleasure of sexual release many times before, on his own and now with John; but it had all been external. Now the feeling came from deep within his body, and it was heavenly.

“Is it good, love?” John asks, though it was only to hear Sherlock's voice again. It was plain to see that Sherlock was enjoying this.

In response, Sherlock reaches for John, twining their fingers together and holding on.

John presses again and again against the place inside Sherlock that makes him gasp and writhe. He could feel how close he was and he begged for more.

Panting, arching, head thrown back he cries, “John, oh god, _oh!”_

John had said he’d make Sherlock scream, and scream he did.

“John!”

As his pleasure unwinds, dragging him beneath the surface with wave after wave, he is dimly aware of John speaking to him.

“That’s it, that it, my love. God, you’re gorgeous, so beautiful. Oh, my sweet Sherlock.”

When he surfaces he sees John through unfocused eyes staring down at him with such profound affection that Sherlock is sure his heart would stop if it weren’t pounding like a drum.

Carefully John withdraws his finger, leaving Sherlock feeling empty and sensitive. He lays back out beside Sherlock, caressing his love as he fights to get his breath.

As Sherlock comes down from the high, body still trembling, John reaches down to stroke himself.

“No,” Sherlock slurs, “let me, please.”

John answers with a kiss to Sherlock's temple and Sherlock wraps his long fingers around John's length. He drops his face to Sherlock's shoulder and groans as Sherlock begins to stroke.

He knows it won’t take much, and he nudges John's hair with his nose.

“Look at me,” he implores.

John does, and when their eyes meet he falls over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sherlock encounters someone from John's past, and he is not impressed.


	17. The Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock encounters someone from John's past, and he is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!  
> A very happy holiday season to you all!  
> I hope this won't be the last chapter i upload before the new year, but we'll see.
> 
> UPDATE: fixed the formatting problems, i think

Sherlock sits on the assembly table in the audience chamber, idly swinging his legs as John reclines in his chair. They haven’t spoken a word since Sherlock entered, just sat in each other’s company, something they were doing quite a bit of in recent days.  


John has been spending his every free hour with Sherlock, either lounging in their apartments or chatting about nothing in particular in the library, but always together. Sherlock is beginning to worry that John may grow tired of him before long if they do not have some time to themselves, but he is not inclined to initiate it.  


From beyond the main chamber door there comes the sound of scuffling and arguing voices. John sits up a little straighter as the door swings open without warning and a woman enters.  


Sherlock freezes.  


He knows this woman, short blonde hair, large eyes, small frame. He’s seen her many times at his brother’s court. A feeling of terror settles in his stomach, he’d been discovered.  


The woman’s eyes clap onto him immediately, but the look that crossed her pixie face is one not of surprise but derision. John rises and approaches her. She takes his outstretched hands and accepts a kiss on the cheek; Sherlock bristles. What the hell was he doing?  


A guard comes in then, apologizing for letting her through without informing the king. John just waves him off with a smile.  


“Welcome home,” John says, voice tight but otherwise friendly, “we didn’t expect you back so soon.”  


“I am glad to be home at last, I can’t tell you how tedious life in the north has become of late.”  


Sherlock is dumbstruck. The two chatter on amiably, but Sherlock can tell there is something about this woman that has John on edge. And hasn’t he noticed that a stranger has just seen Sherlock in his audience chamber?  


John then seems to remember Sherlock's presence.  


“This is Mary Morstan, she works for southern intelligence. You needn't to worry, we can trust her. She is an old friend of mine.”  


“Oh, John,” Mary coos playfully, “I was much more than that.”  


John's shoulders seem to tense rather than relax at her teasing.  


“You’re a spy,” Sherlock says.  


“Yes,” Mary replies, “I’ve been working in your family’s court for a number of years now. Though I suppose I’ve just been compromised.” She gives him the same genial smile she gave John a moment ago, but there is something hard behind it.  


Sherlock is going to respond, defend himself against the suggestion that he would ever betray John to his brother by exposing one of his spies, but Mary carries right on talking to John as though Sherlock isn’t even there.  


“You know there was quite a fuss when it was discovered that the prince had vanished. There were rumors that he’d been abducted or killed. The king pronounced him dead less than a week later, it was rather odd.”  


Sherlock had not known just how long it had taken for Mycroft to write him off. The short time frame did not offend him, he is of no real use to his brother and he knows nothing of state secrets. So it would pose no threat should he have fallen into the hands of southern intelligence— he had nothing tell.  


“Prince Sherlock has been staying with us and will remain for the time being,” John explains.  


The title makes Sherlock's skin crawl.  


“Are you certain it’s worth the risk, your majesty?” she asks. Sherlock did not miss the use of the honorific.  


“Its none of your concern,” John says, his tone making it very clear that the conversation is over.  


They exchange farewells. John expresses his wish for her to stay at the manor for the night before undertaking the journey back to her family’s home, and then Mary Morstan is gone.  


As the chamber doors close, Sherlock fights the urge to spew questions and accusations, instead choosing to curse himself for not being more careful and allowing that woman to see him, especially when he had been sitting so comfortably within John's proximity— she must have noticed.  


“I’m sorry about that,” John says, returning to stand by Sherlock.  


“Who is she?” he asks, folding his arms to communicate he’d allow John no closer until he got an answer. He didn’t care how petulant he looked.  


“She is,” John begins and then hesitates, “she was my fiancé.”  


Sherlock is ready to pounce, but restrains himself at the expression that crosses John's face. There is something deeply sad and almost fearful behind his blue eyes, and Sherlock instinctively reaches out to cup his face.  


John smiles and leans his cheek into Sherlock's palm. He opens his mouth to speak when there is a knock at the door.  


“Wait,” John calls. He places a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips and says, “You’d best go. Come to my apartment tonight, I’ll explain everything.”

Sherlock raises his hand to knock on the tunnel door to John's apartment, but stalls when he hears voices on the other side. He knows he shouldn’t listen in, but his nature overwhelms his better judgment and he presses his ear to the wood.  


He can hear John's voice grow louder and then fade again as he paces the room.  


“I cannot give you an answer now, Mary,” he says, “I will need to speak with my council first.”  


Mary’s voice comes from further away, “They’ll approve,” she says, “they did the first time.”  


“Circumstances have changed.”  


“Yes, they have. But you are still king, and a king must have an heir. It would go a long way towards ensuring the south’s stability if that heir were legitimate, so you’ll need to marry.”  


Sherlock bites down hard on his lip.  


“I understand that, and I agree,” John's voice is resigned, “but these things take time.”  


The sound of shuffling and Sherlock pictures Mary crossing the room to stop John's pacing.  


“It’ll be wonderful,” she coos, “we’ll finally have the life we were denied.”  


John gives a derisive snort.  


“I said I cannot give you an answer now. You may go.”  


Sherlock's fingers flex on the door latch as he waits impatiently for Mary to exit John's chamber before entering.  


John's face softens when he sees Sherlock, and Sherlock feels very stupid. He had blown through the door with accusations behind his lips, but what he had expected to accomplish? He fought against the irrational urge to insist John refuse that woman and remain with him.  


Instead he asks, “Was that Mary Morstan I heard?”  


John's expression sours a little at the mention of her name, “Yes, she came to speak with me.”  


“What about?” Sherlock tries to keep his voice light even as his arms cross defensively.  


John hesitates for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Marriage,” he says after a tense moment.  


“She wanted to speak to you about your need to marry? Hardly seems like any of her business.”  


“Well,” John huffs a humorless laugh, “in a way it is her business now that she’ll be living in the south again. But no, she came to propose marriage.”  


Hearing it said so simply makes Sherlock ache, but he clamps down on the feeling.  


“You said she was once your fiancée?” he can hear the pettiness in his own voice.  


“A long time ago,” John says, voice sad and distant, “in another life.”  


John steps to a cupboard on the far wall and pulls from it a crystal decanter. “I feel I should explain myself,” he says sheepishly.  


Sherlock feels guilt roil within him, he had no right to push John about this.  


“You don’t have to,” he insists.  


“Yes I do,” John replies and hands Sherlock a glass of something golden.  


They sit in their chairs by the empty hearth; Sherlock tries not to notice how his is slightly warm still.  


“Right then,” John sighs, “as I said, she and I were engaged to be married.”  


Sherlock feels his guts squirm.  


“My father arranged it before the war. When the conflict escalated, Mary was retained as a spy for the south, her noble family made for a good cover, and she was sent north to Mycroft’s court. She remained there, gathering information and relaying it back to us.”  


“Was she any good?”  


John's brows rise as though he is considering something impressive. “Very good, one of the best.”  


The story begins to come together for Sherlock but he does not want to talk over John and take away his chance to tell his own tale.  


“But,” John continues, taking a large pull from his glass, “when the conflict quieted she was more in love with her work than she was with me.”  


Something dark passes over John's face, tightening his features. Sherlock wants to reach for him, but he can tell the gesture would not be welcome.  


“The thing is, she and I were close once. Before the war broke out I thought she was as enthusiastic about our engagement as I was. I’d seen a lot of my friends married off to people they didn’t care for or who were monstrous to them, but Mary and I were friends, and I was comforted by the idea that I’d get to spend my life with someone who I at least go on with. But we were both so young at the time.  
I was only eighteen when I enlisted, and when all was said and done I was to become king. I always knew Mary was ambitious, but I would have thought being queen would be enough. But who the hell wants to rule a drowning kingdom?”  


The last piece clicks into place in Sherlock's mind.  


“She left you after your family was killed.”  


John's knuckles have turned white where he grips the arm of his chair, he makes a noise of confirmation.  


“I sent for her when I was recovering from my injuries, but she never came. For two years I sent her letter after letter, begging her to come home to me, but she kept on insisting that she could not leave her post. Eventually she wrote me to say that she no longer wished to marry me, that the work was too important to her and she could never give it up; not even for a crown— not even for me.”  


Sherlock recalls the conversation he’d had with Greg Lestrade shortly after his arrival, and the timeline of John's life as he knows it begins to unravel like a spool.  


“John,” Sherlock says carefully, placing his foot over John's, “I understand that you once attempted to take your own life.”  


He has to force his voice past the lump rising in his throat. To Sherlock's surprise, John cracks a bitter smile.  


“You’ve been speaking to Grep, I take it,” he huffs, but there is no bite to his words.  


“I’m sorry, I did not mean to—”  


“No, it’s alright,” John's seems, not defeated, but tired. “That was a long time ago.”  


“It was after she left you.” Sherlock has to dig his nails into his palm to keep from snarling.  


“You have to understand,” John says, “I had nothing. My family was gone, my country was falling apart…” he breaks off, apparently to steel himself. “She left me and I lost hope. It was a moment of weakness, that’s all.”  


Rage and grief war in Sherlock.  


“And now that bitch has come seeking your forgiveness?” he asks incredulously.  


John quirks a brow at him and smiles ruefully.  


“Mary is right, Sherlock. I must marry eventually,” he says reasonably.  


“But why her? After all she put you through.”  


“For the same reason I was betrothed to her in the first place, I suppose. She is head of her family now, and they still have access to their overseas resources that made her an appealing match to begin with.”  


Sherlock forces himself to nod in understanding, though he feels himself growing heavy with sadness.  


John rises from his chair and crosses to the sideboard.  


“I may turn down her offer, I don’t know.”  


Selfishly, Sherlock wished he would reject her.  


“Are you certain she’s done with her intelligence work and ready to settle down?” he could hear the sneer in his words.  


“She claims to be,” John says, an edge of disdain in his voice.  


John drops down to sit cross-legged on the hearth rug, pitcher of wine in hand. “Come here, love.”  


Sherlock sits beside John and leans against him. they sit in silence for a time and drink from the same cup. Before long they are sprawled out on the carpet exploring each other with gentle hands and lazy kisses. Neither seems to feel the need to do more than just be with his love.  


Through the haze of wine Sherlock realizes there is something he wanted to say. He reluctantly pulls his mouth away from nibbling on John's ear to look into his face.  


“John,” he says with the adorable determination of the slightly drunk, “if you believe marrying that woman is what’s best, then you should accept.”  


John, much more aware owing to a higher tolerance, smiles warmly at Sherlock in a way that makes his toes curl and says, ”Would that not upset you?”  


Sherlock gives a resolute shake of his curly head and mutters, “You must do what is best for your people. I will love you regardless.”

There was no question of it anymore, his time here would be ending very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, autumn arrives in the south and John has a question for Sherlock.


	18. The Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a lovely surprise for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,  
> I am glad i got this up on the actual solstice. Sure the season where i'm at is winter now (or as winter as southern Florida ever is) and they're in the autumn, but still.  
> Home stretch y'all. After this we begin the final arch of the story with only a few chapter to go.
> 
> Just a lot of fluff this time.

Sherlock did not hear another word on the subject of John's marriage and he did not push the issue, though curiosity ate away at him constantly. If John was determined not to discuss it, then Sherlock was equally determined not to spoil his last few days with John by pestering him for details he did not actually want to hear.

But those few days turned to weeks and soon the blaze of summer began to give way to autumn. Nothing seemed to have changed between himself and John, if the king were indeed preparing to marry, he certainly wasn’t letting it effect his time with Sherlock.

On the morning Of the first day of autumn, Sherlock wakes to the chirping of birds and his cheek resting on his love’s warm chest. He peers up at John's sleeping face. He looks so young when he sleeps, the lines etched by new stresses and old anguish are smoothed away.

The sun had just begun to emerge over the distant treetops and Sherlock stretches languidly against John who sighs as he stirs.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” John murmurs.

Blushing, Sherlock wonders if he will ever get used to John's names for him. He mumbles a response and shifts up to nuzzle at John's neck.

They lie there in the stillness for long minutes, greeting each other with kisses and caresses after a night spent apart in their respective dreams.

Eventually, John claims to have something or other to attend to and leaves Sherlock with a kiss.

The next thing Sherlock is aware of is John's voice whispering to him through the haze of sleep.

“Sherlock,” he breathes, “Sherlock, love, wake up.”

Sherlock slurs a protest. He wished John would just lay back down beside him and be quiet.

“Sherlock,” John's voice comes again.

Begrudgingly Sherlock cracks one eye open and does his best to glare at John.

John's eyes are bright in the morning light, and Sherlock can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips.

“Come on, now,” he instructs, and Sherlock hauls himself into a sitting position, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

John practically yanks him from the bed and on to his feet.

“Dress yourself,” he demands, “quickly.”

“What for?”

There is something playful in John's face that makes Sherlock's stomach flip with anticipation as he steps to the wardrobe. John remains very near to Sherlock as he dresses, placing little kisses here and there and distracting him very thoroughly in the middle of pulling on his shirt. When at last he is sufficiently clothed, John grabs his hand and tows him from the apartment.

They make their way through the tunnels and out through the door of the old scullery. After so long sneaking around under the cover of night it is oddly disconcerting to be out in broad daylight.

They walk along one of the paths that branches off from the garden and soon find themselves at the orchard. Sherlock does not ask where exactly they are headed, he simply allows himself to be lead.

The branches of the apple trees hang low so that Sherlock has to walk bent over to avoid snagging his curls in the leaves which form a thick canopy, blocking out the sun. The paths between the trees are narrow and only grow colder and quieter the deeper they travel into the orchard.

Soon they come upon what looks like a sheet that’s been tied to the trees on either side of the path creating a sort of wall blocking their way.

“What’s this?” Sherlock asks.

John says nothing, just pulls the sheet aside with a little smile and gestures Sherlock through. He is a little taken aback by what he finds on the other side.

Sheets have been strung from every tree, enclosing the space within. The grassy path has been covered in a thick layer of blankets, some of which Sherlock recognizes from John's rooms.

John comes in behind Sherlock and pulls him down to sit beside him on the blankets.

“What is this?” Sherlock asks, eyes roaming the little nest.

John gives a sheepish grin and ducks his head, “Just something I threw together.”

This must have been what got John out of bed at an ungodly hour this morning, and Sherlock is slightly awed that he would go to all this trouble for him.

John begins to dig through the nearby mound of pillows to produce a wicker basket. Flipping back the lid, he pulls out a bottle of wine and uncorks it. Sherlock finds he doesn’t know what to say.

He decides not to say anything and instead joins John in pulling things from the basket and laying the items out of the blanket. Bread, cheese, fresh berries, and biscuits. He pretends he doesn’t see the little vial of oil, even as he feels his cheeks burn.

“It’s not much,” John said, “but I packed what I could find.”

Sherlock silences him with a kiss and pops a berry into his mouth, wincing slightly as the sour juice bursts over his tongue.

They eat and talk about nothing, feeding each other the odd bite of this or that just for the sake of having their fingers in the others mouth. When they’ve finished with the food, John pulls Sherlock back against the cushions, and Sherlock is so in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks into John's beautiful eyes and he thinks he could lose himself in them. He knows that it will absolutely destroy him to be torn from this man. He chases that thought from his head before it can ruin his bliss.

He doesn’t remember who started the kissing, but soon John has climbed between Sherlock's legs and they are tearing at each other’s clothes. John clamps his mouth over Sherlock's throat and sucks hard, it will leave a bruise. They move together, so familiar with the other’s body after so many weeks that they fit together without trying.

Everything is a blur of teeth and tongues and fingers, and soon John is pushing into Sherlock. They’ve been intimate in this way before, but Sherlock still isn’t used to it. He bites down hard on his lip, trying and failing to will the tension from his body.

John trails kisses along Sherlock's thighs and whispers sweetly to him.

“It’s alright, love. Breathe, I have you. _Sssshh_ …”

John's voice vanquishes Sherlock's unease and he lets him in completely. It doesn’t take long before Sherlock is rocking back against John, meeting his thrusts and begging for more.

John slips an arm around his waist and pulls Sherlock onto his lap. He wraps his arms around John's shoulders and holds on as their bodies rock in unison. Panting into each other’s mouths, their moans and gentle words fill the sweetly-scented air around them.

John nudges Sherlock's chin up to bite at his neck. Head thrown back, Sherlock can see the sun glittering through the emerald leaves— a sky made of diamonds.

They fell back against the pillows, breathless and spent, and John pulled one of the blankets over them. Now Sherlock lies sated in John's arms, and the world has disappeared around them.

He traces John's jaw with tentative fingers. They cannot seem to look at each other without giggling like fools. Finally, Sherlock bites down on the absurd grin threatening to break free and looks deep into John's ocean eyes. He is utterly and completely at peace.

But John's brow furrows as though he is considering something.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, nosing as John's face until he forgets his frown and kisses him.

When they break apart Sherlock has not yet opened his eyes when he hears John breathe, “Marry me.”

The blood in Sherlock's veins turns to ice and he feels his body flinch violently away from John.

He stares, incredulous, dumbstruck, unwilling to believe his ears.

“Have you gone mad?” he croaks.

“Not at all,” John laughs, stroking a hand over Sherlock's face, “I have never felt more sane in my life.”

“It’s not possible,” he splutters, “I’m dead, as far as the world is concerned. How would you explain my sudden reappearance, in your realm of all paces? And what of that Morstan woman?”

John hushes him with the press of his thumb to his lips.

“Sherlock, before I found you I believed I would never know happiness again. And I was content with that— I was. But now,” he searches Sherlock's face and his eyes are so earnest, “now that I have you, I cannot bear the thought of letting you go.”

Sherlock tries to speak but words won’t come; neither will his breath.

“I thought I could wed Mary for the sake of my people, but damn it, I have given everything for my kingdom time and time again. I will find some other way to assure a good future for the south.”

John's beautiful face has split into a blinding smile.

“Nothing makes sense and the entire world could go to hell tomorrow, but the one thing I am certain of is that I adore you— and I want you by my side until the end of my days.”

Sherlock's heart is pounding so hard his chest aches and his eyes burn.

“It’s not possible,” he insists, though his voice barely comes out.

He shuts his eyes and wills his body to cease its trembling. He had to remain rational, he could not allow his heart to run away with his senses.  When he speaks again his voice is clearer.

“To lawfully wed me would require written consent from the head of my family,” he states as simply as he can.

“Who said I intend to marry _you lawfully?”_ John laughs and Sherlock's eyes come open.

But before he can ask what he means, John continues.

“You are correct, obviously. You and I cannot sign a marriage contract while your brother lives, but that does not mean we cannot marry.”

Sherlock is dumbfounded and beginning to believe John is having a laugh.

“What are you getting at?” he demands.

John leans up on an elbow and places his palm over Sherlock's racing heart.

“Before this nation was divided, back when the conflict was still being referred to as a civil war, marriages did not require contracts. All that was necessary for two people to be bound together was a simple exchange of vows. Most folks in the country side still marry in this way.”

“It isn’t binding, not really.”

“Perhaps not in the north. But we’re a simple people. If I tell them that you and I were wed freely before the gods, they will accept us— I promise. And the moment your brother is dead, I will wed you properly. But never mind all that. Answer me simply, do you love me?”

“Yes,” the word is out of Sherlock's mouth even before John has finished his question.

Laughing, John replies, “And do you want to be my husband?”

Sherlock's body burns at the thought of being husband to this man.

“Yes,” he breathes.

“Then, my sweet Sherlock,” John murmurs gently, cupping Sherlock's face, “will you marry me?”

For a moment, Sherlock experiences a feeling of unreality, as though he is floating weightless outside himself. When he regains his awareness he tries to speak, to answer John, but his throat has grown thick and words will not come.

Instead he grabs John, crashing their mouths together and nodding as best he can without taking his quivering lips from John's.

Between ferocious kisses John pants, “Is that I yes, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock forces the word passed the lump constricting his throat, “god yes, John, of course.”

It takes Sherlock a full minute of desperate kissing to realize that he is crying. John soothes him and pulls Sherlock up to kneel in front of him. He wipes the tears from Sherlock's face and takes his hands. And Sherlock feels his stomach knot up.

_Now? Dear god, he’s going to marry me now._

Sherlock has never felt so giddy, and he isn’t sure whose hands are shaking harder. He can feel John's pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips.

John looks straight into Sherlock's face and his smile is so open its almost startling. Sequestered away in this quiet place, they kneel naked before each other, hiding nothing.

“I, John Hamish Watson,” he begins, and Sherlock is dizzy, “take you, William Sherlock Scot Holmes, to be my husband, my partner, my love. I vow to, _erm…_ ” he trails off with a sheepish little chuckle, “love you and keep you all the days of my life. And to cherish you, and tell you each and every day how blessed I am to have found you.”

There is a beat of silence before John breathes, “Until death we do part.”

Sherlock is aware that he should be speaking, but he is so astounded that it takes a moment to find his voice. Tentatively, he begins.

“I, William Sherlock Scot Holmes, take you John Hamish Watson to be my husband, my partner, my love. I vow to love and keep you all the days of my life. And to cherish you, and tell you each and every day how happy I am to have found you.”

Another beat and a long, slow breath.

“Until death we do part.”

Their first kiss as a wedded pair is gentle and sweet.

Sherlock pushes John back and climbs on top of him, kissing him fiercely. How could this be?

Lawful or no, he knew what was between himself and the man writhing beneath him was as true and right and predetermined as night turning into day. This was inevitable, Sherlock thought, that they should end up here.

In the space of only a few minutes, he and John had gone from temporary to eternal— and Sherlock knew he had at last come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments are so appreciated.
> 
> Next time: Our boys receive devastating news.


	19. The Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,
> 
> I am so sorry for the delay in this chapter, 2018 has been kind of a mess so far and I've been very busy. As of the 13th of this month, i've been writing this story for a year, wow. I had planned to have this completed by now, but thats life. 
> 
> As always thank you for your continued interest in this tale and your continued patience with me as i write it. I look forward to your comments!

Someone is speaking to him.

“Your Majesty. John. John!”

He cannot hear it clearly.

He feels as though he is submerged in freezing water. He can hear the roaring of his blood in his ears. He is trembling.

A hand on his shoulder.

“John!”

John looks up.

He is seated at his writing desk and Greg is standing over him.

“What do you want?” his voice cracks as he forces it from his throat.

“Cabinet meeting,” Greg says simply, “we’ve been gathered for over an hour. Are you not joining us?”

Dimly John recalls the meeting but he does not think his legs could support him even if he had the will to stand.

“What’s this?” Greg asks, nodding to the folded parchment John had forgotten he was holding. He feels sick.

Without a word, John hands the damned thing over and wills himself not to vomit.

Greg takes the paper cautiously, hesitant to read the king’s correspondences. John hears the crack of the thick stock as it unfolds.

“It’s a letter,” Greg states, trying to fill the silence, “from…”

John's stomach knots as his friend reads the letterhead aloud.

“The Desk of King Mycroft the first, of the northern territories.”

The air in the room seems to grow very still as Greg takes a moment to read over the letters contents. John has already memorized it.

_…In addition to an immediate recalling of thirty-six percent of the northern troops currently stationed along your boarders, I am willing renegotiate the terms of our treaty provided my younger brother is returned to me in a timely manner…_

“How did he learn that his brother is with us?” Greg asks, visibly shaken.

“I don’t know,” John replies, voice hoarse.

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“John, he’s promised to invade if you refuse to return Sherlock to the north!”

“Yes, Greg, I did read it.” he drops his head into his hands and releases a long, slow breath. “Who is to say he will not invade regardless. The bastard has been looking for an excuse to do so for years.”

“Then don’t give him one.”

John in on his feet and in Greg’s face before he realizes he has stood. “Do you think I want to? Do you think that after fighting tooth and nail all these years to keep us from war, I would give in now? That after everything I have sacrificed for this country, I would throw it all away?”

Greg then seems to realize that his king had not been wondering what to do, but rather how he would survive once it has been done. Once he has been parted from Sherlock Holmes.

“You knew this couldn’t last,” Greg says gently.

John wants to feel rage at his words, but he can no longer seem to feel anything.

“Of course I knew that,” he says, defeated. _That didn’t stop me from falling so in love with him it hurts_.

Greg steps forward and pulls John in to an embrace.

“He will never forgive me,” he croaks, refusing to allow himself to cry.

“That cannot matter to you now,” Greg says firmly. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong. He will understand.”

John steps away and sucks in a shaky breath.

“Go to him now, I’ll arrange a carriage for first thing in the morning. I think it best to have this over with as quickly as is possible.”

 _So soon_ …

John gives a nod and plucks up the letter from where Greg had placed it on his desk. He does not see the way Greg’s face falls as he exits the room.

Sherlock is in bed, still fully clothed, when John slips through the door of his apartment. With the evening light that bleeds in through the curtains he can see that Sherlock is stretched out on his side, arm tucked under his head.

John stands and listens to his deep, even breathing. His heart gives a painful squeeze. He is suddenly overcome with the need to touch Sherlock, to hold him and press kisses into his hair. As John makes for the bed a board beneath his feet gives a horrible creak and Sherlock comes awake with a sniff.

“John?” he mumbles and props himself up on one arm.

“Good morning, my sweet,” John coos, and sits beside his love.

Sherlock sits up and allows John to run fingers through his hair and stroke his face.

“You’re so beautiful,” John murmurs, a smile curling his lips despite the pain in his chest.

John runs his fingertips over Sherlock's lashes and lips, his cheek bones and his throat. Nothing escapes Sherlock's notice for long, and he soon stiffens and his eyes fly open as he notices John's tension.

“What’s happened?”

John shakes his head, “Nothing—”

“What is it?” he sits up straighter and grasps John's shirt.

“Please, Sherlock.” _Just give me a little more time, please_.

“John,” Sherlock snaps and John relents, slipping the letter out of the pocket of his waistcoat.

Sherlock reaches over and ignites the lamp beside the bed and the room fills with flickering light. It only takes Sherlock seconds to read his brother’s demands. John watches, aching, as the color drains from his husband’s face.

Sherlock slips from the bed on leaden legs and begins to pace.

John fists his hands in the sheets and bites down hard on his lip as a familiar hopelessness settles behind his breast plate.

Sherlock's breathing has gone rapid and shallow. He strides back and forth across the room for long minutes before John finally stands and steps into his path, halting his progress. He feels a sickening stab of pain in his gut when he sees the tears in Sherlock's eyes.

“Oh, darling,” John breathes, carefully wiping his face.

“When must I leave?” Sherlock asks. He tries to steady his voice, but his words waver and crack anyway.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist.

“First light.”

Sherlock pushes his face into the crook of John's neck and breathes him in. John rubs broad circles across Sherlock's back as they sway slightly where they stand.

Without warning Sherlock presses a hard, sucking bite against John's neck. John groans, his back arching into Sherlock's chest as he begins to pull at John’s waistband with shaking hands.

When he cannot undo the buckle Sherlock abandons his attempts to undress John and grabs his face, forcing his head back and crushing their mouths together. John is at first surprised when Sherlock's tongue pushes roughly between his lips, but soon relaxes and permits Sherlock to do as he will with him.

Sherlock is rougher than John has ever known him to be, scratching at his neck and pushing as close as he can get as though he is attempting to crawl inside John. But eventually he must pull away for air and John leans their foreheads together.

Sherlock clutches at John as his panting breaths turn to quiet sobs.

“Sweetheart, hush now.” John plants little kisses along Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

“John,” he squeaks as though it comforts him just to say his name.

“I’m here,” John whispers in his ear, “I’m here, my love.”

John begins to walk them backward toward the bed and carefully pushes Sherlock down onto the mattress. They take their time undressing each other, methodically releasing every button and running hands over each other’s bodies. They are quiet as they attempt to commit each angle and plain of the other to memory.

Hours pass.

They are slow. Lips on heated skin, hands in hair and cupping faces. They lie tangled together beneath the sheets, making love with their mouths and whispering to each other. When one of them is overcome the other kisses and soothes him until they are again lost in one another.

Sherlock comes with an intensity that rocks him to his core, and he lies shaking in John's arms as he comes back into his body. John pulls him close to rest his head on his good shoulder and runs fingers up and down Sherlock's arm.

 

It’s gone midnight before either of them says anything— anything that isn’t sweet nothings in the heat of love making.

“I love you,” John murmurs.

“I know you do.”

John tilts Sherlock's chin up to look into his eyes.

“And I love you,” Sherlock affirms, calmer now.

“I know you do.”

They fall silent for a time.

“Promise me something, Sherlock,” there is a weight in John's voice that makes Sherlock go ridged.

“Anything.”

“Promise me that you’ll survive.”

Sherlock's brows knit in confusion.

“Promise me that whatever happens, you won’t let go.”

Neither of them makes mention what is likely to happen to Sherlock upon arriving in the north. How it is likely it is that he will be torn apart for any information he may have on John and the south, then be put to death for treason. So really, making this promise would be pointless.

“I promise. But you must also promise me, as well.”

“Anything, love.”

“Swear that you will not surrender to Mycroft. That you will wed Mary Morstan and be happy. Please, John.”

Sherlock feels John's lips press against his hair as he whispers, “Very well, I promise.”

Sherlock knows that there is no happiness waiting for him in the north, John must know this as well as he does not ask Sherlock to promise to be happy without him, only to live.

The night wears on.

In the wee hours Sherlock feels John drifts off to sleep at last, he is sure he did not mean to. He had seemed content to lie awake with Sherlock until morning, perhaps it is better this way.

Sherlock's mind wanders as he waits for dawn to break. He imagines a life spent here in the south; with John. He can see it so clearly. Mornings spent cocooned in bed, and afternoons exploring each other in the cool waters of the lake. Evenings entwined on the library sofa, and night passed peacefully in each other’s arms.

He forces the dream from his mind. As he sinks back into reality he is struck with a sudden and vicious pang of dread as he sees that the grey dawn has begun to peak in through the curtains.

Sherlock carefully extricates himself from John's arms and rises to sit beside his sleeping husband.

In a whisper so low even he can barely hear it Sherlock vows, “If there day should come that I ascend the northern throne, I will return to you, my dear John.”

He leans down and ghosts a kiss over John's lips.

“Farewell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sherlock returns to his brother's court.
> 
> This is actually the scene that inspired this story. It turned out very different then how I first pictured it.


	20. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to the North to face his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,
> 
> I am so very sorry for the delay in this chapter. I have been very busy and more than a little stressed. Like i've said before, i am 100% committed to completing this fic.

He had forgotten how low the sky hangs in the north. The plumes of an approaching storm thunder angrily overhead as the carriage trundles along the uneven road. His back aches where its pressed into the hard back of the bench. He is certain he would have been sick by now if he’d bothered to eat a single bite in the last three days.

The journey from the manor to the boarder had been a difficult one. With each turn of his coach’s wheels he was taken further and further from John. Guilt knotted his stomach at the thought of John waking to find himself alone; he was a coward to have left without a final goodbye.

Mrs. Hudson had met him on the front steps, though she had been visibly saddened that they had to part ways, she had done her level best not to weep. The guards that had been gathered to take him to the boarder had been understandably shocked to learn that he, the prince of the north, had been living under their noses for so long. He listened to them speculate amongst themselves like schoolboys during the first leg of their journey, speculating as to why he’d been in the south and why their king has hidden him.

It wasn’t until they reached the boarder two days later that the reality of what was happening finally dawned on him.

As his party broke the tree line his heart had squeezed at the sight of the small army that awaited him. The northern troops that had been sent to collect him far outnumbered the southern manor guards that had been his protectors. A show of strength orchestrated by his brother, no doubt.

Sherlock squared his shoulders and stepped lightly from the coach despite the quaking in his legs. This was actually happening; he was going back.

As his eyes had scanned the line of soldiers before him his eye fell upon a man he thought he recognized. He was tall, even atop his horse, with dark blonde hair and a chiseled face. Sherlock felt a cold stab of real fear as he realized that man tasked with bringing him home was Sebastian Moran.

Moran spoke then and asked Sherlock if he would come quietly or if he would make a fuss.

“I’ll go with you,” the words did not come easily as his throat felt a though it was caked with sand, “so long as you give me your word that you will allow these men who escorted me to return home unharmed.”

Moran lifted a brow and sneered, but agreed to his request.

He stepped forward, head high as the line of northern troops parted to reveal the carriage that waited behind them. As he crossed the space between the heaven he’d hidden in and the hell that awaited, he resolutely did not look back.

 

He had not bothered to ask where he would be taken, but after the first few hours it became obvious that he would not be taken to his brother’s court but to their ancestral home high in the mountains. For two days the peaks loomed ominously far in the distance, growing steadily closer with each passing hour.

At night when their procession made camp, Sherlock refused any food offered to him and he didn’t sleep. Instead he lay in his cot watching the roof of his tent ripple in the wind. The light of the fires outside cast the shadows of his guards long and dark across the grass floor of his fabric cell.

For two interminable nights he firmly did not allow his mind to wander. He kicked off his heavy blankets and allowed the northern autumn cold to sink into his bones until he was too distracted by his body’s violent shivering to be transported back to that warm, safe place he would never see again.

Now, as the sun begins to set on the third day of his travels back through his homeland the crags and outcroppings that rise up around him are becoming more familiar; the cliffs where he played as a child.

As the days wore on, groups of soldiers had fractured away from the party until only a small company remained. Sebastian Moran still leading the way. Sherlock suspected this war criminal would receive some reward for bringing the wayward prince home.

The ancient mountain castle comes into view over the crest of the path and Sherlock sucks in as deep breath as his lungs could hold. The carriage jostles to a stop and he schools his face into a mask of indifference as the door swings open to release him.

The icy air bites at his skin as he drops from the carriage, impressed with himself that he could affect an air of nonchalance despite the growing sense of dread in his gut. There really was no turning back.

A two women wait for him on the low front steps, skirts sweeping elegantly in the wind. Anthea, right hand to the king, he recognizes; the other dark haired woman in the fitted white gown is a stranger to him. Anthea steps forward.

“Good evening, your highness,” she says, voice soft and measured.

Sherlock does not respond, only fixes her with as icy a glare as he can muster.

She does not try to engage him further and simply gestures for him to follow her inside.

Sherlock feels his hackles rise as he is enclosed by the cold stone walls. He is aware of the stranger in the white dress following behind him and Anthea, but they are otherwise alone. They trek deeper into the depths of the castle until they come upon a familiar pair of doors.

“You room,” Anthea informs him cordially before slipping silently away into the darkness of the hallway beyond.

“Come,” says the stranger as she brushes past Sherlock to usher in into the apartment.

The room is large with a high ceiling and a plush bed on a platform against the far wall, tapestries and paintings of all sizes obscure the pale stone walls. Someone has lit a fire in the hearth and the atmosphere within this familiar space is almost welcoming.

“Is there anything I can get you, Sherlock?”

The sound of his name jars him back to awareness. “Who are you?”

She gives him a gentle smile. “My name is Irene Adler; I am in the employ of Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock's entire body tenses and he takes a reflexive step back.

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve been asked to ensure your comfort during your stay.”

Her words pique his interest. He would not be remaining here long term, this was useful information.

“I can see that I’ve made you uneasy.” She motions toward the bathing room, “There is a hot bath waiting for you. I’ll have your dinner brought up while you wash.”

Sherlock watches Irene Adler cautiously as she leaves the room, giving him a nod rather than a more formal gesture.

When he opens the door of the wash room steam wafts into his face, clinging to his curls. He undresses himself and slips quietly into the large copper bath. The hot water is a balm to his frigid skin, and he lets out a contented sigh as the tension begins to ease from his body.

All around him candles flicker and cast their warm light upon the grey stone walls. He closes his eyes and lean his head back against the rim of the bath, which is big enough that he can float weightless in its depths. His mind driftsback to the last time he had been in water deep enough to submerge in; the lake.

That beautiful, blistering summer day in the cool waters, wrapped in John's arms. John's lips against his lips, his neck, closed over his nipples. The way John had laid him out on the dock.

He closes his hand around himself and strokes gently.

He can so vividly recall the feeling of John buried deep inside him, John's breath on his skin. He can almost hear the sweet thing’s John would whisper to him.

“ _My darling, my sweetheart, my love_ …”

Sherlock bites down hard on his lip to keep from making noise. His hand is moving faster now and he can feel his release fast approaching.

Candlelight dances behind his eyelids and his breath comes in shallow gasps. Sherlock fancies he can feel the warmth of John against him. His back arches, his body coiled tight.

“John,” he whines, voice shaky and desperate.

 “ _That’s it, love, come for me_.”

Sherlock obeys.

 

He sits on the edge of his bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The linen of his sleep clothes feels rough against his over sensitive skin, and he tries his best to ignore the growing feeling of emptiness inside himself.

He is itching for something to occupy his mind. He thinks a visit to the library might offer something in the way of distraction, but he cannot seem to make his legs move. His body feels heavy and lifeless, he feels lifeless.

There are faint footsteps approaching his door. For a moment Sherlock assumes it must be Irene or a servant woman retuning with his food, but the steps are too quick and too heavy, the sound of boots not slippers.

Instantly he is on his guard. The footfalls grow louder until they come to a halt on the other side of the door. There is a brief murmuring of voices before the door opens without warning and Mycroft steps through. He curses himself for not realizing, if Anthea is here, of course Mycroft would be as well.

Sherlock resolutely does not stand. Slowly, Mycroft strides towards his brother. Though they’re eyes remain locked, Sherlock can still see the cane held gingerly in her brother’s right hand, the foot of it barely touching the ground with every step. He wants to run, to flee, to hide; but there is nowhere to go. Whatever is to come, he cannot run from it, not this time.

Mycroft finds a place to stand in the middle of the ornate rug, hands held over the cane grip. He waits there, chin raised, face blank. Clearly the only way to get this over with will be to give his brother what he wants. So Sherlock rises.

He stands before his brother, his king, and laces his fingers behind his back.

When it becomes clear that Sherlock refuses to speak, Mycroft gives a knowing sniff.

“Good evening, brother dear.”

Sherlock does not respond.

“You’ve caused me quite a bit of trouble these past weeks, are you aware?”

His heart is pounding.

“Your fiancé pitched such a fit when he discovered that you’d disappeared. He swore that if he couldn’t have you he would tell his father our arrangement was off. That would have been inconvenient for me, Sherlock,” his voice is soft as though he were speaking to a child.

Sherlock's eyes have drifted to a place in the air behind Mycroft’s head. A long silence falls between them.

Sherlock feels the flare of rage in his brother before he sees it and instinctively flinches back before Mycroft crosses the space between them and grabs hold of Sherlock by the collar.

“You selfish brat,” he hisses, “I have a mind to—”

Mycroft’s attention is distracted by something and Sherlock is momentarily relieved until he feels cool fingers slip under the collar of her shirt. He moves to pull away but refrains, knowing if he does, Mycroft’s finger would snap the strand of silver beads through which its hooked.

He pulls the prayer beads out of Sherlock's shirt.

 “You know how mother felt about religion,” he says this last word as though it left a sour taste in his mouth. “She would be ashamed.”

 _John wouldn’t be_.

“You run off without informing your big brother and come home bearing the trappings of a faith I outlawed years ago,” his tone is light now and almost sweet, it makes Sherlock's skin crawl. “Shall I have you executed for heresy as well as treason?”

“What difference does it make to you?” Sherlock spits, extricating himself, “You have no faith.”

Mycroft smirks, raising his thin brows. “Neither do you, brother.”

Sherlock feels the color drain from his face. _He knows_.

Mycroft steps around Sherlock as if to examine him.

“I always told father you were weak,” he says conversationally, “and you have proven me right at every opportunity.”

The blow, when it comes, is delivered to his gut, forcing the breath from his lungs. Doubled over, gasping for air, Sherlock doesn’t notice the cane come down again until it cracks against his back. He drops to his knees.

“You’ve always been a bastard,” Sherlock drawls, lungs burning.

Mycroft grabs him by the hair and yanks his head up. “Mind your tongue, I ought to do far worse.”

“Then do it, kill me.”

They stare into each other’s eyes. Sherlock feels his resolve harden, a bravery he’d never known flaring white hot within him.

When at last Mycroft speaks his voice is deadly calm.

“I have very seriously considered it, Sherlock. But on balance, you’re of more use to me alive. In one week you will marry Jim Moriarty and secure me his father’s resources. I will then take the eastern territories.”

Sherlock knew his face betrayed his confusion. “Isn’t Lord Moriarty’s influence enough, what the hell do you want with the entire eastern territory?”

“I will require the extra force, to protect my dearest little brother.”

“Protect me from what?” Sherlock clambered back to his feet, pulse rising.

“From the madman who abducted you, of course.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but words would not come as the horror of what his brother had planned began to dawn on him.

“I sent my baby brother away for some much needed rest, and that evil man stole you away. He tried to blackmail me into withdrawing my troops.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says with a calm he doesn’t feel, “you have me now, leave them be.”

“I can’t do that, Sherlock.”

“Your people are content, their thriving, they will not want to go to war again, even under false pretenses.”

“Perhaps, but they will be crying for vengeance once I tell them of how the southern king tortured their prince for weeks, refusing to relent until I agreed to his demands.”

“John would never hurt me!” he barked.

“Do you think they will believe that? They believe what I tell them. They believed me when I told them the south assassinated our parents, they will believe me now. Though truthfully, I do not need my people’s approval. Once I have the eastern troops behind me I will destroy the southern kingdom, burn it to the ground and salt the earth. And when the smoke clears, you will watch John Watson die slowly; as expiation for your betrayal.”

He feels as though he is under water, all he can hear is the pounding of his blood in his ears. He thinks he might be shaking, but he can’t tell… he is numb.

He wants to cry, to scream, to curse this vile man, but he can’t find his lips. Mycroft places a gentle hand against his cheek.

“Oh, brother dear, come now. I’ll make you a deal. If you do as I say and marry without a fuss as I have asked, I will spare your paramour’s life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then try me.”

Mycroft turns then and strides easily back to the door.

Without turning back he says, “You are fool to believe he loved you, the brother of the man who slaughtered his family. He could never have loved you. No one could.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sherlock has an unpleasant encounter, and possibly makes a new ally.


	21. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets a new ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings,
> 
> Warning:  
> This chapter contains a bit of violence.

Sherlock sits at his desk, head pillowed on his folded arms. His head feels as though it is filled with mud. Mycroft had forbidden him to leave his apartment until his wedding day, leaving him with little in the way of distraction.

Under any other circumstances Sherlock would have simply leapt from the window and climbed down the side of the tower, but he would not take the risk. For the past six days he had gone over and over his brother’s words in his head, and he now desperately clings to the hope that if he does as he is told and marries to secure the Moriarty fortune for his brother, he may be able to convince Mycroft to forego his plans to destroy the southern kingdom.

Surely once Mycroft has his new army he will set his sights on a bigger prize. It would be undignified to wage war on a realm which stood no chance of defending itself… wouldn’t it?

Regardless.

By the time the sun set tomorrow Sherlock will have held up his end of the bargain; on this he was resolved. And, war or no, he could only hope his brother would do the same.

With effort, Sherlock gets to his feet and pads barefoot into the washroom. He cups his hands in the basin and splashes cold water in his face, bracing himself on the wash stand. Behind him looms the figure of a suit form baring his wedding attire, he glowers at it in the mirror as if he could frighten it away.

Gently, he runs his fingers over the soft cream wedding suit. With he slightest touch the mannequin rocks on its uneven feet, making the gold cape glitter in the low light. The ensemble was attractive enough though he can’t seem to imagine himself in it. He wouldn’t have to imagine for much longer. He doesn’t want to think about it.

As he is leaving the bathing room there is a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he says, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

         The door opens to reveal a tall man with dark blonde hair and a chiseled face, Sebastian Moran. Sherlock's hackles rise as Moran crosses the threshold wordlessly and steps aside to allow someone else to enter behind him.

“Hello, my dear,” Jim Moriarty greets him with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Hello, Jim.”

Moriarty steps forward clapping his hands together. “I know it’s supposed to be bad luck and all, but I just had to see you.”

“Well,” Sherlock drawls, gesturing widely, “you’ve seen me. Now get out.”

He turns from Jim intending to flop onto his bed as though unconcerned, that quickly proves to be a mistake. He felt the decanter fly passed his ear before it smashed against the wall, shattering brilliantly.

He wheels around in time to see the vicious gleam in Jim’s black eyes before he is caught round and waist and pulled to the floor. He lands hard on his hip and is forced onto his front. There is a sharp pain in his arm and something dark spreads up his sleeve.

Instinctively, he makes to crawl away but is quickly pulled back and pinned by thighs bracketing his waist, arms held above his head.

Moriarty bends over Sherlock, bringing his lips to his ear, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, determined to wait this out; simply grit his teeth and bear it, knowing that fighting will only worsen things. But when Moriarty’s cold hand slips under the hem of his shirt Sherlock's body reacts reflexively, flinching away from the unwelcome contact.

He kicks hard, trying to free himself. One of his hands slides loose and  he twists as far as he can to sinks his blunt nails into Moriarty’s cheek. Pain flares from a deep gash where a piece of the shattered decanter is sunk deep in his forearm, blood and wine soaking his shirt and dripping into his eyes.

Sherlock is able to get all the way onto his back when, with a snarl Moriarty reels back, snatching Sherlock's wrist and bending it at an unnatural angle. Sherlock swallows the scream that curls in his throat and dips his head to sink his teeth into Jim’s hand as he reaches for his throat.

Moriarty makes a sound like a wounded cat and glances briefly over his shoulder. the hulking form of Moran sidles over, his face is unsettlingly blank. Without a word Moran kneels by Sherlock's head, taking hold of his wrists and securing them against the floor under his knee.

Sherlock's blood turns to ice in his veins, breath coming in shallow gasps, heart pounding as his mind races.

He is now lying supine with his arms restrained and Moriarty is straddled over his hips. He’s not an idiot. He vows to himself he will not make a sound, he will not beg, he will disappear into the depths of his mind until it’s over.

He would have expected Moriarty’s face to be triumphant and smug, but where he anticipated arrogance there was only stillness; this was business to him.

Sherlock barely has a moment to brace himself as he sees Moriarty’s arm pull back before the blow connects with his chin. Dazed, he doesn’t at first feel buttons of his bloodied shirt being torn away. But as he comes back to himself, mouth tasting of copper, something within Sherlock screams at him to fight; kick, scream, do anything he must to free himself.

He writhes and kicks, trashing as hard as the pain ripping down his arm will allow. Moriarty’s fist clenches again but the blow never comes.

“His brother would not like for him to arrive at the altar with a swollen lip,” Moran says, his voice rough but unbothered.

Moriarty makes a noise of agreement and carefully gets to his feet.

Sherlock does not have a chance to enjoy the relief he feels before a well-polished boot comes down hard on his abdomen and he cries out. A broad hand clamps over his mouth as Moriarty’s the toe of Moriarty’s boot connects with is ribs again and again.

He can’t breathe.

His legs kick out blindly but he cannot get his feet under him long enough to stand. Even if he could it would make no difference with his arms pinned under Moran’s knee. He is lightheaded, his chest burns with every shaky inhale and he can hardly see through the stars that dance before his eyes.

Moriarty moves to kick Sherlock again.

“Enough!” a voice calls from somewhere.

Jim turns toward the voice with a wicked smile plastered on his pale face.

“That’s enough, sir. You’ve made your point.”

Moriarty looks down at Sherlock, eyes terrifyingly empty as he seems to consider.

“Very well,” he says at last,” I suppose I can wait just one more night. Come along, Seb.”

As Moran’s hand pulls away from his mouth, Sherlock's aching chest heaves as he coughs, unable to take in enough air. With an effort that is almost too much, Sherlock turns over onto his side and curls in on himself wrapping his arms protectively over his abdomen.

“I’ll see you in the morning, love.”

Sherlock can hear the smirk. The chamber door closes.

He breathes slowly, eye shut tight.

A hand alights gently on his shoulder and he jerks up, groaning as the sudden movement pulls at his chest. He is surprised to find himself staring into the angular face of Irene Adler.

“It’s alright,” she says, voice low, “he’s gone.”

She could well have been speaking to a frightened child.

Irene offers Sherlock her thin hand and helps him carefully to his feet. His legs shake beneath him and she supports him around the waist as she guides him to the washroom.

He eases himself down onto the edge of the huge wash tub and allows her to slip his shirt off, letting it fall into the tub behind him.

This is what he has to look forward to. To being raped on his wedding night likely to be followed by a honeymoon of nightly beatings. Very well, he could endure it. He would have to, he had no choice. He would endure this life of fear and degradation if it meant there was even the slightest chance that John's life would be spared.

Something wet presses against his lip, and the resulting sting pulls him from his thoughts. Irene’s face is passive but not cold as she holds a wet cloth to Sherlock's face. He takes it from her and she looks down at his chest, silently asking permission to touch him; he nods.

She moves spindly fingers over his ribs and sternum, prodding occasionally and biting her lip. Sherlock doesn’t move.

“I don’t believe he’s broken anything,” she murmurs, voice echoing in the hollow chamber.

Not yet.

She takes his left hand in hers and examines it, first checking to see if he could still move his fingers correctly. He had all but forgotten the shard of glass buried in his flesh.

He recalls the last time someone held his throbbing wrist like this. John, that night at the piano in the abandoned conservatory. Irene’s hands are soft but her touch carries none of John's tenderness. No, he would never again feel gentle hands on him, or a kind touch. The thought makes him sick.

Without warning Irene pinches the shard and pulls it free, Sherlock sucks in a breath.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she wraps another wet cloth around the wound.

She steps to the wash stand to soak the remaining folded cloths in the basin.

“So, what’s your story?” Sherlock asks, hoping to distract himself from the pain in his arm.

“My story?”

“Your features are eastern but your accent is northern. You’re from a well off family, perhaps the daughter of a lord. How did you end up in the employ of Jim Moriarty?”

“I don’t work for Jim; I work for his father. And I am not myself a lord’s daughter, but I’m married to one. My wife, Kate, is from the north. A few years ago she became the head of her family after her mother passed; a worthless title, her family’s fortune was obliterated in the war.

Our daughter was born ill, and we did not have the means to seek the treatment she needed. We were desperate. I sought the aid of Lord Moriarty in hopes that he might provide me with the resources needed to take my family and I out west. When I met with him he informed me that my father owed him an outstanding debt at the time of his death and that if I wanted the money I would have to work for him. I never believed his claims, but as I said, I was desperate.”

“Did you ever receive the funds?”

“In a way. My family is sent a small sum each quarter.”

“Is it enough?”

“Yes, they’re overseas now, and my little one is receiving the care she needs. But I am not permitted to leave my post until Lord Moriarty decides my father’s debt has been paid.”

Irene’s voice is soft as she wraps the cold, wet linen around Sherlock's middle to ease the swelling. Sherlock now understands that the gentleness of her touch is that of a mother.

“I’m sorry,” he says, throat tight, “that must be difficult for you.”

“It is, but my family is taken care of, and that keeps me going. Sometimes the right reason can make a difficult choice easier.”

She strokes his hair and smiles, “I think you understand well what I mean. When I arrived here I was told stories of a wayward prince too selfish for his own good. And perhaps you were selfish, once. But the man I see before me now is willing to do whatever it takes to protect what he loves. You’ve become a true prince at last, Sherlock. It simply took a true king to show you how.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sherlock's wedding day arrives.


	22. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's wedding day arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,
> 
> So we’ve reached our climax, hope I did it justice. 
> 
> You're probably getting sick of me apologizing for the delays in chapters, huh? well i actually started this a little while ago but i put it aside because i recently started a new job thats had me more stressed than i thought it would. i'm actually posting this just before i have to leave for work.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He is braced against the basin, head hung low. He does his best to draw in a deep breath to calm the roiling in his stomach but his chest is too tight and the air only rattles feebly in and out of his lungs.

At least the retching has abated, for the moment.

There is a knock at the washroom door and Sherlock lifts his head slightly.

“Yes?” his voice comes out a hoarse whisper.

The door slowly opens and Irene Adler tentatively peers around it. something like pity crosses her face when she sees him, but she quickly rearranges her features to something kinder as she enters. Irene places a thin hand against Sherlock's cheek and her eyes speak volumes.

“Come, I’ve brought your dresser,” her voice holds such a sadness.

She may feel worse about his fate than he does.

Dawn has just barely broken and the room is filled with a soft grey light. Irene offers him a soft smile and slips from his bedchamber, leaving him alone with the woman sent to dress him for his wedding.

He steps up onto the low stool before the long mirror and lets his dressing gown slips from his boney shoulders and pool at his feet. The woman, old enough to be his grandmother with a weathered but kind face, gathers the discarded article before offering him a trouser leg to slide his foot into.

She works quickly and quietly. Sherlock almost wishes she would slow her pace just to put off the moment when he would have to leave this room.

No.

There is no point in delaying the inevitable.

The way she purposefully avoids touching him does not escape his notice. The detachment with which servants typically interact with their masters is something Sherlock would have considered the natural way, had he considered servants at all; but that was before John. Before he learned how genuine the bond between staff and employer could be. before he understood how genuine the bond between people could be.

He resolves not to think about it. He wills the memory of John's strong hands on his skin to fade away, because Sherlock will never again feel kind hands on him, and he has accepted that.

Sherlock doesn’t notice that he has become lost in his thoughts until the dresser speaks, startling him slightly. “Here you are, sir.”

He looks back over his shoulder and see that she is holding up his coat for him, and he allows her to help him into it. she fastens a belt around his waist and loops a shining gold sash over his shoulder before attempting to arrange his curls into something presentable.

She steps back and smiles as she admires him. Sherlock glances up at the mirror only meaning to take a cursory look at himself, but is brought up short by what he sees.

The creamy suit frames his angles in a way that makes him stand up a little straighter and hold his head a little higher. He is every bit the proud prince and he only wishes he could have looked this splendid when he married John in the orchard.

He wishes John could see him now.

He steps lightly down from the stool and into his shoes. He is ready.

Two guards meet him in the hall outside his door. They follow close behind him as he picks his way along the still dim corridors.

He scoffs. Does Mycroft expect him to run now?

He supposes that is the entire reason behind arranging for Sherlock to be married here in the chapel of their ancestral home, it wasn’t worth risking his little brother disappearing again between here and the king’s court.

Beyond the main hall there is a gallery lined with family portraits dating back hundreds of years. At the far end of the long room there is a pair of enormous doors, before which stands Mycroft, flanked by Jim Moriarty and four knights in full regalia.

Dread chills Sherlock to his core and he imagines he can feel the painted eyes of his ancestors boring into him as he makes his way down the gallery. One wall of the portrait hall is lined with high, narrow windows that flow into the chapel beyond the doors. As he walks, he steps in and out of rays of light that stream across the cracked stone floor. The sun never truly rises in the north at this time of year, and the light that hangs in the air in gauzy and grey, it almost seems to cling to Sherlock's skin, making him feel as though he is underwater.

“Good morning, brother mine,” Mycroft drawls. His face is completely blank, no need for sarcasm or threats anymore, not when he is about to get exactly what he wants.

Moriarty gives Sherlock a smile that does not reach his dark eyes, Sherlock does not look at him.

The guards that accompanied Sherlock to the chapel doors wordlessly place him beside his husband-to-be as they form up for their procession down the aisle. Moriarty places Sherlock's right hand in the crook of his elbow, and Sherlock pretends his skin doesn’t crawl.

The chapel doors open with a squealing creak and those gathered within rise from their pews as their king enters, followed by their prince and his fiancé.

Their progress up the aisle is slow, deliberate, each step taken in time with music that Sherlock doesn’t hear. His eyes flit around the room, he recognizes many of the people who watch him so intently. Their faces are blank, and Sherlock realizes that not a single one of these people feels even a bit of affection for him. They will not weep with joy to see him wed, nor will they regret the long years Sherlock must spend bound to a man who has no love for him.

He is nothing to them.

He feels very alone.

Sherlock and Moriarty are separated when they reach the altar and Sherlock is ushered to the left to await the start of the ceremony.

Mycroft stands at the head of the room and addresses the crowd.

“Friends,” he begins, “we are gathered here on this most glorious morning to bear witness to the wedding of prince Sherlock, my dear brother, to James Moriarty.” His voice is falsely cheerful as it rings off the high grey walls of the chapel.

Sherlock spies Irene sitting demurely beside Lord Moriarty, her face is apprehensive.

Surreptitiously he glances out at the sea of faces to see that not one of them is smiling and he barely suppresses a laugh.

 _This is not my wedding, and that vile man will not be my husband. John is my husband. I am already wed. I have known a love beyond measure, beyond anything I would have believed myself capable of. I have been loved, and I am certain that love will sustain and strengthen me through all the rest of my days_.

Despite what he tells himself the fear burning in his stomach only worsens as Mycroft’s speech ends and the justice steps up to the altar, inviting Sherlock and Moriarty to join him.

The world fades away and leaves only the sound of his own blood pounding in Sherlock's ears. He draws in a long, slow breath and lifts his head, his shoulders straightening the way he’d seen John do so many times.

He steps up to the altar and comes face to face with Moriarty, who’s small face is twisted in a sickening self-satisfied grin.

“My dear Sherlock,” he murmurs in a voice meant only for the two of them, “in mere moment you will be all mine, eternally.”

Sherlock's throat constricts.

“I will never be yours,” he spits.

Moriarty gives a dismissive little shrug and turns to the justice who has settled himself behind the podium.

There is very little preamble. The justice drones on for only a brief time about the sanctity of marriage and how it is not to entered into lightly before he is asking Moriarty if he will take Sherlock to be his wedded husband.

“Oh, I will,” Moriarty coos, and bats his eyes.

“And will you, Sherlock Holmes, prince of the north, take James Moriarty to be your wedded husband.”

“I will.” His voice sounds far away and very small.

“Then I now pronounce you man and husband.”

A chalice is presented to them, shining silver inlayed with jewels and stamped with the Holmes family crest. Sherlock being the higher ranking between them takes the cup first and places the cool rim to his lips.

The dark wine washes bitter and bright over his tongue as he takes a deep pull. He fights to hold back a grimace; northern wine is appalling. Sherlock hands the chalice back to the justice who then presents it to Moriarty.

They sink to their knees as the justice instructs the room to bow their heads in prayer with him. In the silence that follows Sherlock considers if it was all really worth it. Was it worth the pain of separation from his John only to inevitably fall back into the clutches of Moriarty and his brother? Was it worth the increased threat to the south? Was it worth the many nights to come when he will lie in Moriarty’s bed trying desperately to convince himself its John's hands on him?

 _I’m so sorry, John_.

A small sound reaches him through the fog of his thoughts. From somewhere beyond the chapel doors there comes the sound of voices.

The voices grow louder and the crowd begins to mutter, pivoting in their seats to glance back at the entry before the door burst open with a crack and soldiers pour into the chapel.

Screams erupt from the wedding guests as they frantically search for a way out of the room, but there is nowhere to go. The spaces on either side of the pews are rapidly filling with southern soldiers.

In the panic, Sherlock shoots to his feet, body bracing to move. Moriarty has already fled the altar as guards close in around him, blocking his view of the room.

From back down the aisle a voice Sherlock cannot believe he is hearing calls his name above the din.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock shoves his way passed the kings guard barring his way, sinking his teeth into one’s shoulder when they will not let him though.

He breaks their grasp as the form of John Watson emerges from the fray, Greg Lestrade following behind, sword drawn ready to defend his king.

Even as his brother’s men attempt to keep hold of him, Sherlock feels the smile break across his face as his eyes spill over.

“John!” he cries, and he is running down the aisle and he throws himself into John's waiting arms.

He presses his face into John's neck and sobs, relief flooding his body.

“How are you here?” he gasps.

“Hush, love,” John soothes and pulls Sherlock back to crash their lips together, “It’s alright now.”

He is lightheaded and he cannot breathe, the room is almost spinning around them.

 Sherlock feels a familiar gaze on his back and tears his eyes from John's to see Mycroft looming at the altar, his face like thunder. John pulls Sherlock around to stand behind him, one hand on the small of Sherlock's back, the other on his sword.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice carries a warning that sends chills down Sherlock's spine. His fingers hold tight to John's shoulders. John should not have come here, if Mycroft should capture him now he will show no mercy.

John looks back over his shoulder and nods to Lestrade who rushes passed them, sword drawn as John pulls Sherlock away, fleeing the chapel. Sherlock does not witness Greg Lestrade run his brother through, but he hears the screams of his wedding guests as they watch their king die.

John pulls them down a narrow stone stairwell obscured by a column in the gallery. The light soon disappears and their air grows cold as they leave behind the light from the gallery windows the further they travel down the stairs.

Sherlock is having difficulty drawing his breath, his chest feels tight and his head swims, he feels feverish. He trips on a step and falls against John who catches him around the waist and carefully lowers him to the stairs.

“We must keep moving,” he says, eyes darting back and forth on alert for anyone who may have followed them. He opens his mouth to encourage Sherlock again to stand but words seem to die in his throat when he sees his face.

“Sherlock?” John's voice is tense, “Are you alright?”

His vision is beginning to blur and he can’t seem to hold his head up.

“You can’t breathe,” John says under his breath and he immediately loosens Sherlock's collar.

Greg’s voice floats into his awareness from somewhere far away.

“John, why have you stopped, you must get to the horses.”

“Somethings wrong,” John nearly shouts, hands scrabbling over Sherlock who can no longer feel his extremities, “he can’t stand.”

Greg is suddenly bending low over John's shoulder where he kneels beside Sherlock. He hears a match strike before light flares in his eyes. He tries to protest but all that comes out of his throat is a pathetic whine.

“God, John, look,” Lestrade tone is dark and Sherlock feels unfamiliar fingers tilt his head back. “His veins are black. He’s been poisoned.”

_Poisoned?_

The inside of his head feels thick and he can’t quite decide how is meant to react to that.

The sound that curls out of John is so horrible that Sherlock would have flinched away but he is no longer able to move.

“Get help,” John says, and pulls Sherlock over to lie on his back on the stairs.

“Northern troops are already swarming the gallery— I can’t risk going back up there.”

“Please, Greg, please. That bastard Moriarty must know something, find him.” John is openly weeping now and Sherlock wants to reach out and comfort him.

A defeated sigh and the sound of boots retreating.

“Alright, alright, he’s gone for help,” John babbles, “you’ll be fine, we’ll be fine.”

 _Of course I’ll be alright,_ he wants to say, _you’re here_.

“Stay with me, Sherlock, stay with me.”

 _I will_.

Sherlock wants to tell John how happy he is to see him, and how sorry he is that he left without saying goodbye. He wants to tell this beautiful man how much he loves him, and how happy he was with him and…

“Take me home,” it’s a struggle to get the words out.

John's body heaves with a sob. “Yes, love, we’re going home right away.  But you must stay awake, do you hear me? Don’t leave me.”

_I’m right here…_

But he is so tired.

“No, no!” John cries, “Sherlock, open your eyes. We’re going home, and everything will be just as it was. We’ll be together again, we’ll be so happy, I promise.”

Sherlock forces his eyes to open just a little. John is bent over him, face wet with tears. John shouldn’t cry.

“I’m going to marry you, Sherlock Holmes.” John says, a pained smile on his lovely lips.

This pulls a strained laugh from Sherlock.

“You already did, have you forgotten?”

John chokes on his own laugh, “No, of course not, how could I?”

Sherlock wants to tell John that everything will be alright, but he is so tried.

He doesn’t hear John's agonized wail when he is slammed into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Will Sherlock survive and have a happy ending with John, or is this how their story ends?


	23. The Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is lost without his prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,
> 
> So we have only one more chapter to go before we come to the end of this little adventure!
> 
> I have had so much fun writing this, and your comments have been such a source of joy for me. Thank you all so much.

He’s gone.

James Moriarty and his father fled the castle hidden in the mountains before John's troops could apprehend him. Fled like the cowards they are back to their homeland. If the soldiers in pursuit do not capture them before they cross the eastern border they will be permanently beyond John's reach; and he is more eager than he cares to admit to have them in his custody— to make them pay for the suffering they’ve inflicted.

Suffering that John does not yet grasp the scope of.

         It had not been Greg that had returned to his aid in that damp stairwell, but a woman with dark hair. She had introduced herself as Irene Adler and laid a gentle hand on Sherlock's cold cheek where he lay on the crumbling steps. A regret so deep had filled her eyes that John had been taken aback to learn she was in the employ of Lord Moriarty.

But so genuine was her remorse at learning what had happened to Sherlock that John was inclined to believe her sincere, despite his reservations.

The gallery was still now that the chapel doors were shut and a guard of southern troops stood watch, the small number of northern soldiers, as well as the few servants, that had accompanied the late king to his family’s ancient home had been quickly rounded up and subdued by Greg’s forces and shut up in the chapel with the wedding guests.

Guided by Irene, John hoisted Sherlock's limp body onto his back and delivered out of the darkened stairwell and into his bed.

John sits beside him as runs his fingers lightly over Sherlock's cheek and down his neck, slipping them beneath his collar. He hooks his finger around a strand of beads he finds there and pulls free a familiar chair of silver prayer beads; he may be sick.

Slowly he leans down and presses his forehead to Sherlock's chest, taking fistfuls of his coat and simply holding on.

“Your majesty, I am so very sorry,” Irene’s voice speaks up small and defeated from somewhere near the door, he hadn’t realized she was still in the room.

“Where is he?” John rasps, “James Moriarty and his fucking father, where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

John's head snaps up, biting words poised on his tongue.

“I swear,” she says, holding up her palms to him, “Sebastian Moran accompanied them here but was absent from the wedding, it’s possible he may have gone on ahead of them to secure safe passage home,” Irene explains.

“That settles it then,” John says darkly, “they were involved. They did this.”

“He did it for you. Sherlock. He did it all for you,” she says.

“I know.” He cries then.

John does not move from Sherlock's side as morning turns to day and day to twilight. He waits with him like he did the day he found this rare and otherworldly man in his forest.

It’s Greg that pulls him from his memories with a hand on his shoulder.

“John, a decision must be made regarding the people being held in the church.”

John's voice is a croak when he speaks. “They will remain here until we have taken the capitol, these northern nobles will swear their allegiance to whomever will offer them wealth and security; they care not who sits on the throne.”

“And who will sit on the northern throne if we should be successful?”

John had not considered that. he doesn’t care. The crown should have been Sherlock's.

“I didn’t trust him when first we knew him,” Greg says, voice heavy and sad. And it takes a moment for John to realize he is referring to Sherlock. “But I could see how happy he made you.”

“Enough,” John says, near begging, “this whole damn mission was pointless. Now I’ve dragged you and my whole country back into war and I’ve nothing to show for it.”

“Maybe not. With Mycroft gone we have a greater chance of swaying the nobles to our cause. If we have their support, we have the support of their armies. We _will_ take the capitol, we will finally bring all this to an end; and it’s all thanks to him.”

John brings Sherlock's cold hand to his lips.

“I know.”

John's eye drift around the bed chamber for the first time.

“He called this place his ancestral home,” John murmurs, “this is no home— it’s a prison.”

Greg clears his throat and shuffles his feet, clasping his hands behind his back.

“What is it?” John asks apprehensively, braced for another blow.

“The second company arrived this afternoon and the captain brought with him something that requires your attention.”

Can’t the world leave him in peace for one day to grieve?

John nods for him to continue and Greg pulls a rolled document from his pocket.

Unfurling the thick parchment John is assaulted by the header which informs him he is holding Mary Morstan’s death warrant. All that is required is his signature.

John had been devastated when he woke to find Sherlock had gone without a final goodbye. He had scrambled out of bed only to realize it was nearly noon and he was too late.

In that moment it was as though everything around him had been sapped of its color and he imagined he could feel his heart die just a little. He had spent the remainder of that day curled up in the bed that had been Sherlock's, pretending he could still feel his warmth.

Sometime after sunset, John is not sure when, Mrs. Hudson had knocked on the door. She’d fussed and petted his hair like a small child when she saw how broken he was before gently instructing him to dress himself and come to the audience chamber quickly.

For a few hopeful seconds he thought perhaps Sherlock had come back to him, but that was impossible.

Greg met him in the audience room, accompanied by Sarah, Mike, and James Sholto.

“Good evening,” he greeted them, but there was no sincerity in it. He took in their pitying expressions and heaved a sigh. They know.

“Majesty,” Major Sholto began, “earlier this evening one of my officers intercepted a letter from the north addressed to Mary Morstan, an old acquaintance of yours.”

“I suppose that’s one way of phrasing it,” John mutters, “And what did this letter contain?”

“Sentiments of thanks for services rendered.”

John is unnerved by how even the Major’s voice is, always a sign of unpleasant things to come.

“Services?”

Greg spoke up. “It seems she’s done a bit of work for Lord Moriarty of the East in recent years.”

John feels as though the floor has dropped out from under him

“Apparently, James Moriarty was desperate to find Sherlock and secure his place in the line of succession, and Mary was sent to us in hopes of finding some evidence tying us to Sherlock's disappearance, so at least Moriarty would have something to offer Mycroft to remain in his good graces while he continued his search. She never expected to find the man himself.”

Sarah interrupted Greg, “But instead of sending her payment by messenger he sent a letter detailing their dealings by post, knowing we’d intercept it and she’d be caught.”

Mike spoke next, “She was arrested at her old family home this afternoon. According to the warden, she’s been quite accommodating, offering up any bit of information she’s asked for.

“Then we will soon know the extent of her treachery.”

Within hours a trial had been convened to decide the fate of Mary Morstan, and former general Gregory Lestrade had readied troops to take the northern capital and a castle sequestered in the mountains.

“Must I sign this now?” John asks, rolling the edge of Mary’s death warrant between his fingers.

“The sooner the better, if you want my opinion,” Greg replies, “Best to have it over with.”

John glances down at Sherlock's slack face. He has lost so much already this day, to condemn someone who had once been so dear to him to death— he fears it may kill him as well. He cannot bear another loss, not now. In truth, he does not know how he will go on when all this is done.

If his army is successful in seizing the capitol, he will have done his job. He will have assured the safety of his people, so he will feel no remorse when he goes.

He wordlessly hands the warrant back to Greg and as he does a folded paper slips out and onto the floor. He plucks the page from where its fallen on his boot and peels it open, waving Greg to go.

He recognizes Mary’s thing script.

 

_John,_

_I will keep this brief, for both our sakes._

_By the time you read this you will know of my betrayal and you will have likely decided my fate. For what it’s worth, I bare you no ill will for it. My fate is the fate all those who know no loyalty, I accepted that long ago._

_By my estimate you will not arrive in the north until after the wedding, which I am told will take place just after dawn three days from now, so I feel you deserve to know what else James Moriarty asked me to do for him._

_When he received my first letter regarding the location of his fiance, he then asked me to procure him a poison of some sort. He did not care what, only that it had a very specific time frame. In his words, he wanted something with a reaction delayed enough that prince Sherlock could drink from the poisoned wedding chalice and there would still be enough time to conclude the ceremony and get him out of the church before the effects took hold._

_The fool always did have a flare for the dramatic._

_I will not insult you by saying I regret my part in this, we each chose our paths long ago._

_With fondest regards,_

_Mary_

 

John crumples the paper in his fist, tears streaming down his face.

So be it then.

He rises from the edge of the bed and stretches his sore body before stripping off his coat and boots and climbing into bed with his love for the last time.

The room is cold in the dark hours, no fire has been lit and wintery air drifts in with the moonlight. John shivers and he longs to reach out and press himself to Sherlock, but he knows he will find no warmth there, not anymore.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” he whispers into the darkness, “I was too late. I never should have let you leave in the first place. I should have forced you to stay with me, no matter the consequences. Nothing your brother could have done could be worse than this.”

He does not sleep. He lies awake for hours in the stillness, weeping silently into his pillow. Pain thunders in his chest and rolls out in waves through his body, he is beginning to remember how black misery can be.

He does not sleep. But drifts on the edge of wakefulness where dreamy memories of tenderness float behind his eyes.

John inhales deeply as he comes back to himself and rubs his eyes to clear them. In the quiet of the room he hears a sound that makes his heart leap.

A gentle breathing emanating from somewhere beside him. He bolts upright.

He places a hand on Sherlock's chest to feel it rise and fall beneath his palm and he stifles a sob in his elbow.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, running his hand long Sherlock's face, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

No reply.

“Come on, love, open your eyes, I’m here. Please, Sherlock.”

A tiny hitch in his breathing and John watches, heart racing, as Sherlock's beautiful eyes come open just a little.

“Sherlock!”

This gets his attention and his eyes flick to John's face and something like a smile tries to form on his lips. He tries to speak.

“ _Shh,_ ” John hushes, “it’s alright sweetheart, I’m right here, it’s alright.”

He quickly mops the tears from his eyes so he can more clearly see Sherlock's face in the dim light.

“Oh, darling, I thought I’d lost you.”

Sherlock tries to lift his hand and John cradles it in his own and kisses each fingers over and over in turn until Sherlock huffs and rubs a thumb over John's cheek, when John takes to kissing his wrist instead.

“John,” Sherlock croaks, “my John.”

He is hesitant to step back into the chapel. He stalls at the doors which are guarded by two knights in their mourning attire. He feels John's broad hand at the small of his back. He doesn’t say anything, just pushes the door open and guides them through.

The long room is empty, mourners will not be permitted in until morning, but John insisted they come down now so as to have this over with before Sherlock must lead the funeral service for his brother.

As he lay in bed regaining his strength, John beside him, Sarah and Mike had come and gone from the room as they put together the most effective plan for the most peaceful transference of power from Mycroft to Sherlock as the new king of the north, a title that still sent a rush through him. His first act as king had been to insist his brother’s advisers be sacked and sent on their way.

He walks swiftly down the aisle to the alter where his brother’s body lay on display. Still, he dares not get too close.

“He’s gone, love,” John says, even though he is nearly whispering his voice echoes slightly in the air. “He’s gone and we’re still here.”

John is right, of course.

His brother, the man who had made his life so deeply painful was gone; snuffed out like a candle. Only human after all.

It somehow seemed unnatural to Sherlock that someone who had been so large in life could seem so very small now, lying dead on a marble slab.

“Have you received and news from Sarah regarding the annulment?” Sherlock asks, wanting to fill the heavy silence.

“We know he’s still in the region and it’s been five days, if no one has heard from Jim Moriarty by the end of the week, she is confident she can get you— us— the annulment.”

“He’ll turn up,” Sherlock mutters, “somehow he always does. He’ll find a way to ruin our happiness again, or something else will.”

He does not take his eyes off his brother’s sunken face as he speaks.

With a sigh he turns on his heel and leaves.

He knows John can see the darkness hanging over him, and much though he wishes he could pretend to be as elated as he knows he should be, he just can’t. it makes him feel selfish and cruel. He got the thing he professed to want more than anything in this world, he and John are together again. But he cannot shake the dread settled deep in his bones.

They walk in silence back to Sherlock's bedchamber.

He throws the door open and tosses his coat onto the floor, he will be thrilled when he no longer has to wear black and he can stop pretending he is at all saddened by his brother passing.

“Sherlock,” John says softly and takes his hands. He places kisses on his tight frown until Sherlock's lips curve into a smile.

“My love,” John murmurs, “My one and only love.”

John has a blackness hanging over him too, but he somehow manages to be soft despite it.

“Just think, when all this is done we’ll be able to marry properly. We’ll be man and husband before all the world, and we’ll never be parted again, I swear.”

Sherlock smiles against John's mouth.

“Not here,” he says, “at home, in spring, when it’s warm.”

John hums his agreement before pushing Sherlock back onto their bed.

Hands roam and clutch and mouths smear across sweat damp skin. They move and sigh and mend each other, and fall over the edge together, as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: We'll learn how it all ends.


End file.
